


june bug

by suspendrs



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (in the past), A lot of them - Freeform, Alcohol, Animal Death, Depression, Drowning, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Like, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Repressed Memories, Sexual Assault, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, contemplations of death, way too many fucking metaphors tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:52:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 57,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24984874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suspendrs/pseuds/suspendrs
Summary: “Aren’t you happy that you exist?” Louis asks.No,Harry thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud.Or, Harry meets Louis on a cool night at the end of June.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 45
Kudos: 275





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please be mindful of the tags. i've had a rough couple of weeks inside the ol noggin and a rough couple of months in terms of my status as a Professional Writer ™ and this is the only thing i've been able to get out since like march.
> 
> for anyone who's not from new england and whichever other places have june bugs, [this is what a june bug looks like](https://www.google.com/search?q=june+bug&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS771US771&sxsrf=ALeKk02XlK6uEc15ogRlZoMttgjj4op1BQ:1593455760971&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwif7uOk1afqAhVUg3IEHcBcAVsQ_AUoAXoECBkQAw&biw=1280&bih=593). for anyone who identifies a little too strongly with harry in this fic, [here's a link](https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/) you might want to keep in a safe place.
> 
> please do not translate, repost, or recreate this work in any way. thank you!

From this high up, the water looks exactly like the sky, the faint swirling pattern of the clouds cut to pieces by jagged treetops; the only giveaway is the moon, rippling gently in the cool breeze. It’s probably much colder down there at the surface of the water than it is up here, leaning against the wooden railing of the bridge, still warm from the sunshine that faded hours ago. Someone else might find beauty here. Someone else might feel an ache for that fleeting warmth of a summer day, and not a hard, freezing desire to plunge beneath the surface of that watery skyscape and never emerge.

Harry leans a little heavier against the railing, partly to see the water better, partly to dare the railing to give. Oh, if the railing would only give. It would look like an accident, by the time he washed up on the riverbank, or maybe he’d make it all the way out to the bay, and when they finally found him, they’d all be sorry they hadn’t been there for him sooner, before he got all cut up and waterlogged and— 

There’s a creak, and Harry eases the pressure he’s putting on the railing immediately. His heart is pounding, but the second he realizes what he’s done, it sinks down to his toes, resentful at the human instinct for survival.

He leans against the railing again before his heart can convince him not to, pushing a little with the balls of his feet to make the railing creak again. There’s nothing but silence for a moment or two, but the next creak that sounds comes from behind him, and his heart rushes a little more of that bothersome adrenaline to his limbs as he turns to glance over his shoulder.

“Hey,” says a quiet voice, muffled like the mouth it belongs to isn’t quite willing to let go of it. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, lets the other person get a little closer, until the orange streetlight washes over him. It’s a guy, probably Harry’s age, in a yellow hoodie. He smiles around the unlit cigarette in his mouth when Harry meets his eyes, and Harry fights the instinct to smile back.

“D’you have a light?” asks the person beneath the yellow hoodie. He gestures toward the other end of the bridge, where another streetlight illuminates the edge of the dirt path that leads to the road back into town. “Dropped mine over the side,” he says, smiling sheepishly.

“No,” Harry says, keeping his face carefully blank. “I don’t.”

“Damn,” the person beneath the yellow hoodie sighs. 

Harry watches him a moment longer and then turns away, looking back down at the water. He waits for the yellow hoodie to get bored, to get weirded out, to leave him alone, but instead, the stranger adds his weight to the railing, plucking the cigarette out his mouth and placing it carefully back inside the box he produces from his sweatshirt pocket.

Harry waits, but the yellow hoodie doesn’t seem to get the hint. Harry won’t be goaded into being the first one to walk away, though; he didn’t come out here tonight to be scared away by some scruffy guy in a brightly colored sweatshirt, he came here to—

“Hey,” the stranger says, huffing something like a laugh. He shifts to touch Harry’s arm, and Harry almost flinches away, but he wills himself not to, to just keep staring at the water, instead. “June bug,” the stranger says, fiddling with the sleeve of Harry’s t-shirt.

“What?” Harry asks tiredly.

“Him,” the stranger says, stretching his arm over the railing to put his hand in Harry’s line of vision. There’s a big, brown beetle resting on the stranger’s fingertips, stubby antenna wriggling slowly. It takes a few hesitant steps across the stranger’s hand and then starts scuttling all at once, lunging toward Harry once again. “Oh!” the stranger gasps, laughing when Harry startles back, away from the edge of the bridge. “He likes you!”

Harry brushes the beetle off of his chest, and it hits the wooden floor of the bridge with a quiet thump. It doesn’t choose to stick around very long after that, scuttling out of the ring of orange light.

Harry looks up at the stranger again; his face is cast in shadow, but he’s smiling, Harry can see the glint of his teeth in the streetlight. He’s about to give up, consider this another unwelcome sign to wait one more day and just go home, but the stranger steps away from the railing and meets Harry’s eyes before he can move to turn away.

“What are you doing out here, all by yourself?” the stranger asks, stuffing his hands into his sweatshirt pocket.

Harry doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t think he could say anything even if he wanted to, he’s so far outside of his head. He should shove this man out of the way and get this over with, stop leaning against the railing like a coward and just climb up and over, make himself—

“Aren’t you cold?” the stranger asks, curling his shoulders up a little as if to show that he, for one, is cold.

Harry blinks. He is a bit cold, now that he thinks of it. “I like it,” he says.

“Oh,” the stranger says. “Fair enough.”

Neither of them moves for a few long, awkward seconds. Harry thinks again about pushing past the stranger and leaping for the water, but he’d feel a little too guilty doing that, because this yellow hooded person seems so happy, and it’d probably make him feel rather sad to watch a person do such a thing. Maybe he should just go home, after all, fill up the tub in the bathroom he used to share with his sister and plug in the hairdryer she left at home when she moved away, turn it on and—

“Hey,” the stranger says, drawing Harry back out of his thoughts. “What’s your name?”

Harry, inexplicably, can’t find it within himself to answer the question. “What’s yours?” he counters.

“Louis,” the stranger says easily, happily, like he likes the sound of his own name. Oh, to like his own name. Harry can’t remember the last time he liked something about himself. “Do I get to know yours?”

“What?” Harry asks.

“Your name?” Louis presses.

Harry blinks, and then drops his eyes from Louis’s face to his chest. _Tell him_ , he thinks. _Tell him your fucking name, weirdo_.

“That’s alright,” Louis says eventually. “I’ll call you— um, I’ll call you June Bug,” he decides, grinning when Harry looks at his face again.

“What?” Harry asks again.

“June Bug,” Louis repeats. “Like the beetle that was on your shirt.”

“Why?” Harry asks.

Louis shrugs, looking down at his feet, and then over at the railing. “Because that was the thing that got you away from that railing,” he says, voice quieter than before.

Harry flushes, and Louis must be able to tell, because he smiles again and steps a little closer.

“Hey, June Bug,” he says. “Do you like tea?”

“Harry,” Harry says quickly. “My name is Harry.”

Louis hums, like he’s considering something. “I like June Bug better,” he decides. “So, do you?”

“Do I what?” Harry asks.

“Like tea?” Louis says. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I guess.”

“Come home with me,” Louis says. It isn’t a question. “We can make some tea and drink it outside, if you want.”

Harry does want that, oddly enough. It’s a foreign feeling, wanting. It seems like the only thing he’s wanted in recent memory is the feeling of the cold river swallowing him up, but, tea. Tea sounds nice, too.

Louis’s house isn’t very far away, just over the other side of the bridge and a few minutes around the bend in the road, in the opposite direction from town. Louis lets him sit inside the cozy kitchen while he boils the water and fills two metal tea balls with a mixture of dried herbs from a mason jar. He gives Harry his choice of mug from the extensive collection in the cupboard beside the stove and then wordlessly hands over the milk once the tea has been steeped, and after the counter has been cleared up, Louis leads him through the door at the back of the kitchen and out into the yard.

It’s colder outside than it was before, or maybe it just feels that way, because Harry’s got a hot cup of spicy smelling tea in a mug shaped like a honey pot from Winnie the Pooh in his hands and Louis won’t stop watching him, hands cupped around his own mug like he isn’t scared of getting burned.

“So, June Bug,” Louis says, once they’re both sitting in the cool grass, legs folded in front of them. “What’s your story?”

Harry takes a sip of his tea, staring down into the mug when he’s finished until the surface of it settles. He can’t see the reflection of the sky, the liquid is too light in color, and Louis’s backyard has too many trees to let the moonlight in. It’s so dark out here, the only thing Harry can really see clearly is the outline of Louis’s yellow hoodie, which makes it a little easier to swallow the tea in his mouth and find his answer.

“I don’t have a story,” he says quietly.

“Sure you do,” Louis says. “Everyone has a story.”

“I don’t,” Harry says.

“Well, tell me a different story, then,” Louis says.

Harry doesn’t say anything, fiddling with the mug in his hands and waiting for Louis to give up.

“This is my Nan’s house,” Louis says, gesturing toward the house they’ve got their backs to. “My mother’s mother.”

Harry nods a little, but doesn’t look up from his mug, and Louis must take it as an invitation to keep talking.

“My mom passed away a few years ago,” he says. “Cancer. My siblings and I have been living here with Nan ever since. Stepdad’s new girlfriend is insufferable, y’know, so, Nan took us in without a question.”

“That’s nice of her,” Harry says quietly.

“She’s the best,” Louis says. It sounds like he’s smiling. “I work two jobs to make it work. We still get Gramp’s retirement checks every month, by accident, since he died last winter, but we need it to get by.”

Harry holds his mug a little tighter, focusing on the way the cool breeze seeps through every thread of his t-shirt and chills him right down to his bones.

“I really wanted to go to college before, y’know,” Louis shrugs. “But I don’t need to. I’m saving up, don’t tell the girls, but I’m saving up so that when my sisters graduate from high school they can take classes at the community college and do better than me. It’s hard sometimes, honestly. I know there’s really nothing in it for me, and that used to frustrate the hell out of me, but I can’t give up, y’know? I just can’t quit on them,” he says.

“You’re a good person,” Harry says, glancing over at him. “Really good.”

“Thanks,” Louis hums. “Well? Do you have a story now, June Bug?”

“Stop calling me that,” Harry says, voice low, but firm. Louis flinches a little, lowers his mug into his lap.

“Oh,” he says unsurely.

“My name is Harry,” Harry says. “Why do you keep calling me June Bug?”

Louis’s quiet for a minute, but then he chuckles a little under his breath. “Sometimes it’s fun to have a nickname, isn’t it?” he asks quietly.

“Well, I have a real name,” Harry says.

“Real isn’t real,” Louis says, like he’s absolutely sure of it.

Harry falters a little, glances over at him, and finds Louis’s glowing eyes already trained on him.

“Sometimes the realities in our lives don’t really fit very well, y’know?” Louis says.

Harry softens a little, losing some of the tension that lives in his shoulders. “Yeah,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. “I’ll call you Harry.”

Harry lets it hang in the air for a minute, lets the sound of his name in the shape of Louis’s voice ring inside his head just long enough to decide he doesn’t really like it very much, after all. “You can call me June Bug,” he says, quiet enough to blend in with the crickets singing around them. “If you want.”

Louis smiles, Harry can feel it more than he can see it. Maybe he does have some sort of story, after all.

“Truth be told,” he says, “I don’t really like Harry.”

“Your name?” Louis asks.

“No,” Harry says. “The guy wearing it.”

“Oh,” Louis says.

“Do you ever just, like—” he pauses, choosing his words very carefully inside his head.

“What?” Louis presses.

“Picture the world without yourself in it,” Harry finishes. Louis doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move at all, and Harry’s heart sinks. “I mean, not like you want to die, but more like you just… don’t really want to exist,” he says.

“Well, no, not really,” Louis admits. Harry glances over at him, and Louis shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. “If I didn’t exist, my family would have a much harder time, y’know?” he says. “And I’d miss all the little things I love about life,” he shrugs.

“Like what?” Harry asks.

“Like, cool summer nights,” Louis says, “and sitting in the grass, laughing with friends, seeing movies, listening to music. And hugging your loved ones, and finding funky mugs in thrift shops and buying them even though you’ve got a million at home and your Nan is gonna grumble about making space for a new one. Catching frogs in shallow streams, drinking the milk at the bottom of the cereal bowl, and meeting new people who fascinate you,” Louis says. “The little things that aren’t really memorable in themselves, but they give you that warm little feeling in your chest anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess some of those things are nice,” Harry says. “But, I— I think I could, y’know, do without,” he mumbles.

“Well, what things do you love about life?” Louis asks, shifting to face him despite the fact that he probably can’t even see him in the darkness.

“Um,” Harry says.

“Haven’t you ever had a moment where you look around and think, ‘I could stay here forever’?” Louis asks.

Harry shifts the mug in his hands to keep his skin from burning, and tilts his head back toward the sky. It’s not black, really, more like a deep, dark blue. Harry really likes that color, he thinks. He lowers his eyes again to trace the shape of Louis’s hoodie, the only part of him he can really make out, and he sort of likes the way he can only kind of see Louis’s head in his mind, the way you can only kind of imagine the rest of the moon when only a sliver of it is lit up. “This one, I guess,” he says.

“Right now?” Louis asks brightly.

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs.

“Well, then, aren’t you happy that you exist?” Louis asks.

 _No_ , Harry thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud.

“I’m twenty-two,” Harry says, like a confession.

“I’m twenty-five,” Louis says in reply.

“I graduated from college last month,” Harry says.

Louis gasps a little, nudging Harry’s knee with his own. “Congratulations!” he says. He doesn’t ask what school he went to, or what his major was. Harry’s never been so relieved.

“I hated the whole thing,” Harry says.

Louis hesitates. “Oh.”

“I picked the wrong major, and I didn’t realize it until senior year,” Harry says. “By then it was too late to change.”

“Well, y’know, that’s not so bad,” Louis says. “I’ve heard that your major doesn’t really matter so long as you have a degree at all.”

“There’s not a single job in the world that I want to do,” Harry says.

“What _do_ you want to do?” Louis asks.

“Nothing,” Harry says.

“Stop existing?” Louis says. It’s supposed to sound like a joke. Harry wishes Louis knew how right he is.

“Yeah,” he says, pulling his mug up to his mouth and taking a long sip of his tea.

“What would you do if nothing else mattered?” Louis asks eventually.

“What?” Harry asks.

“If you could wake up tomorrow, and money didn’t matter and no one else’s opinion mattered, and you could be anywhere in the world doing anything at all, what would it look like?” Louis asks.

Harry thinks about it for a minute, holding another sip of tea in his mouth until it cools off and starts to slide down his throat on its own. “I’d be in an apartment, really high up off the ground,” Harry says.

“Ooh,” Louis says thoughtfully.

“In a rainy city, like Seattle, maybe London,” Harry says.

“Have you ever been to those places?” Louis asks.

“I went to London a few years ago,” Harry says.

“That’s really cool,” Louis hums.

“I’d be an artist of some sort,” Harry decides. “A really good one.”

“You make art?” Louis asks.

“No,” Harry says. “I’m no good at it.”

Louis pauses. “So,” he says, like he’s confused, “you don’t make art because you’re not good at it?”

“Well, there’s no point in doing something you’re no good at,” Harry says.

“Sure there is,” Louis says. Harry shrugs, and Louis huffs a little breath, amused. “What _are_ you good at?”

Harry shrugs again, not daring to look in Louis’s direction.

“What are you really bad at?” Louis asks after a few quiet moments.

The question catches Harry off guard. “What?” he asks.

“What are you absolutely terrible at?” Louis asks. “I’m fucking awful at driving,” he admits.

“Um,” Harry says, racking his brain for an answer. “I’m terrible at dancing, I guess,” he says.

“Oh, hell yeah,” Louis laughs. Before Harry can react, Louis snatches the mug of tea out of his hand and runs off, disappearing into the shadow of the porch.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, but Louis doesn’t answer him, running back to the middle of the lawn and dragging Harry up off the ground by his hands.

“Let’s dance,” Louis says joyfully.

“I just told you I’m bad at it,” Harry says, trying and failing to pull his hands out of Louis’s grip.

“Exactly!” Louis laughs, twirling himself under Harry’s arm and then launching himself into some bouncy jive to the tune of whatever imaginary song he’s got in his head.

Louis’s a pretty bad dancer, too, by the looks of it, but his hands are warm in Harry’s and he’s sort of forcing Harry to move his arms, anyway, so Harry gives in, swaying along to Louis’s frantic, uneven beat. 

“Jesus, you are a terrible dancer,” Louis laughs. “C’mon! Have fun with it!”

Louis starts dancing even more ridiculously, kicking his bare feet out and jumping around in the cool grass. Harry laughs a little and tries to keep up with him, but it’s impossible; Louis drops his hands and twirls away to dance more freely, and Harry lets himself slow to a stop, content to just watch Louis throw himself about the yard. The lights on the back of the house must be motion activated, because when Louis gets close to the back windows, the whole yard flickers into view, startling Louis out of his silent performance.

Harry laughs, and Louis looks up immediately, stopping dead in his tracks. He’s smiling brighter than the floodlights could ever hope to be, a little out of breath from all the wriggling and jumping.

“You’re pretty awful, too,” Harry says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I like it when you smile,” Louis says, dancing forgotten entirely.

Harry falters a little, looks down at his shoes and tries to tamp down the smile on his face. Louis floats back over to him like some kind of lovely sprite, ducking himself down until he’s put his smiling face back into Harry's field of vision.

“Don’t you like smiling?” he asks.

“Do I like it?” Harry chuckles awkwardly, unsure.

“You’ll never be good at anything if you don’t let yourself love it,” Louis tells him.

Harry blinks, his smile fading into something a little softer, something he can’t quite put his finger on. Louis keeps grinning at him, though, like he knows exactly what it is.

“I think you’re really good at loving things,” Harry says quietly.

Louis’s smile gets impossibly brighter, and he straightens up like he can’t support so much happiness all hunched over like that. “Thank you for saying that,” he says sweetly, earnestly. “That makes me really happy.”

“Is there anything that doesn’t make you happy?” Harry teases.

“Sure there is,” Louis says, but he’s still smiling so much Harry finds it rather hard to believe him.

“Really?” he asks. “Because I’ve only seen you smile and laugh tonight.”

“That’s because I’ve gotten good over the course of my life at making myself happy,” Louis says. “You can’t just be happy all the time, y’know. You have to look for things that make you feel good.”

Harry thinks it over for a second, the rest of his smile finally slipping off his face. “But what if nothing makes you feel good?” he asks quietly.

“Then you haven’t been looking hard enough,” Louis says.

Harry slumps a little, dropping his eyes. “How much harder can I look?”

Louis gets a little closer to him, prompting Harry to meet his eyes again. “You can always try harder,” he says.

“Don’t you ever get tired of trying?” Harry whispers.

“Sure I do,” Louis shrugs. “But I surround myself with people who always remind me why it’s worth it.”

Harry watches him for a second, his chest going tight, and then his throat.

“Don’t you have anyone like that in your life?” Louis asks.

Harry looks down, biting the side of his tongue.

“Well,” Louis says, poking Harry’s shoulder gently. “You do now.”

Harry forces half a smile, but he doesn’t believe that for a second. _We’ll see how long that lasts_ , he thinks, _before you get tired and leave like everyone else._

It takes a moment to notice it, but once he becomes aware of it, he can’t get it out of his head. Right now, for the first time in what seems like a very, very long, he isn’t itching to escape. He isn’t plotting his exit strategy, isn’t longing for solitude, or for a bridge to stare longingly over the side of. He’s content, weirdly so, and it feels… nice.

“Hey, June Bug,” Louis says quietly. “Wanna know a secret?”

Harry looks up at him, catching the mischievous glint in Louis’s eyes. “What?” he asks.

Louis looks down, fumbling for something in his sweatshirt pocket. He pulls out a lighter after a moment, presenting it to Harry shyly, and it takes a few seconds for the significance to register in Harry’s mind.

“I didn’t really need a light,” Louis says, flicking the flint on the lighter to make a flame flare up. “I just needed an excuse to talk to you.”

Harry blinks, watching Louis’s hands as he drops the lighter back into his pocket. “Why’d you wanna talk to me?” he asks.

“Well, I was just taking a walk,” Louis says, “because I’ve had a really busy and tiring few days, and sometimes I just like to walk by myself at night when the rest of the world is asleep. It’s easier to be myself, and to remind myself who I am when no one else is around,” he says. “I like to go to that bridge and smoke and listen to the water, I do it all the time, but I’ve never seen anyone else there at that time of night. When I saw you, I almost turned around and left, because I didn’t want to bother you, but then I thought you might have lost something, because you were looking over the bridge so intently. I was going to ask if you needed help, but then I saw your eyes were closed and I just got this feeling that you were… I don’t know, I felt like you needed someone to talk to,” he says.

Harry frowns, inspecting Louis’s face. “My eyes were closed?” he says.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “You were just leaning against the railing with your eyes closed and your head down,” he shrugs.

“My eyes were open,” Harry argues.

Louis frowns a little, confused. “I don’t think so,” he says gently.

“They were,” he says firmly. He remembers the way the water looked, he remembers noticing the way the water looked when the sky reflected off it, he can almost still _see it_ in his mind, but then again… maybe he was just imagining it, after all. He feels sick, suddenly, taking a step back, away from Louis. “My eyes were closed?” he asks again, weaker.

“Are you okay, June Bug?” Louis asks.

Harry blinks, dropping his eyes and trying to breathe in as deep as he can.

“Harry?” Louis says, worried.

Harry jumps a little, which makes Louis jump, too, but when Harry meets his eyes, he looks as calm as ever.

“Hey,” Louis says, “do you wanna go for a walk?”

Harry nods a little, even though he’s not really sure he does want to go for a walk. 

“Here,” Louis says, beckoning him toward the house. “Come inside for a second, and I’ll grab you a sweatshirt.”

Harry waits in the front room while Louis runs off to get him a hoodie, keeping his eyes firmly on his feet instead of the innumerable photographs and mementos decorating Louis’s Nan’s house. They’re lovely photos, Harry’s sure, but he’s recently discovered that even his own eyes aren’t to be trusted, and he doesn’t quite feel like misperceiving anything else tonight, if he can help it.

Louis reappears with a forest green hoodie, and Harry’s hands shake a little as he pulls it over his head, but it’s soft and it’s warm and it smells strongly of fabric softener and faintly of cigarette smoke and Harry already feels a little more human by the time his head finds its way out of the hood. Louis smiles at him and nods toward the front door, and then they’re off.

Louis leads him the other way this time, back towards town. Harry follows wordlessly, thoughtlessly; he’d probably follow Louis right off the edge of the earth right now, but he trusts that Louis wouldn’t lead him there, anyway. Louis’s got business here, in the real world. He’s not looking for a way out like Harry is.

“Where do you live?” Louis asks conversationally, skipping down off the sidewalk to walk in the street for a few steps, and then back up, back and forth like he just can’t choose between them.

“Here,” Harry says, head down, voice low.

“Where’s your house, I mean?” Louis asks, smiling at him patiently.

“Across the bridge,” Harry says. “Other side.”

“Do you want to go there?” Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head, but Louis isn’t looking. He must take Harry’s silence for what it is, though, and skips back down into the road just to jump over the sewer grate like a child.

“Can I show you something?” Louis asks, hopping back up on the sidewalk and bumping Harry’s elbow with his own.

They walk all the way through the center of town, and Louis weaves up and down off the sidewalk all the while, like it’s normal, something he always does. Sometimes he makes it all the way to the yellow line, walks a few carefully placed steps on the paint before he makes his way back to the sidewalk. Harry watches him intently, intensely, but Louis doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. He’s the physical embodiment of freedom. 

There’s an alley behind the old theater in the center of town that leads to a scraggly patch of woods, and just beyond that, the world flattens into the highway. Harry can see the headlights through the trees even from the alleyway, and he knows that just past the highway, the land gives way to the bay, and the endless expanse of the ocean.

In high school, kids used to come out here at night to smoke and drink and touch each other, or whatever high school kids do. Harry was never really one of them, never really cared to have friends or sneaky places to do sneaky things with them. He wonders what kind of kid Louis was in high school, because there’s a little trail that leads into the woods just past the alley, something you’d never see if you weren’t looking for it, and Louis finds it without a bit of trouble.

As soon as they break through the patch of trees, they step up onto the side of the highway, just behind the guardrail. Louis hops over it and then reaches back for Harry’s hand, helping him up and over it and then pointing to the other side of the highway.

“We’re gonna run to the other side, okay?” he says, squeezing Harry’s hand. Harry nods, looking past Louis to spot the oncoming traffic. There’s not many cars on the road, unsurprisingly; it’s the middle of the night, and the sky is getting darker by the minute, like it’s going to open up and downpour soon. They wait for the two closest cars to whir past them and then Louis squeezes Harry’s hand again, tugging him along as he starts to run.

Harry’s heart is pumping by the time they make it to the median, not because of the running, but because of the exhilaration, the rush of darting across a three-lane highway with the glow of approaching headlights illuminating the asphalt. Louis doesn’t give him much time to rest before they’re darting across the southbound side of the highway, and when they get all the way to the other side, Harry finds himself laughing brightly.

“C’mon, daredevil,” Louis grins, dropping Harry’s hand and stepping over the guardrail. “I wanna get there before it rains.”

There’s another patch of woods on this side of the highway, and another vague path through it, but the trees are thicker here and the path is a lot darker, Harry can barely keep track of Louis’s silhouette as he traipses into the woods. Harry trips a few times in his effort to catch up, latching onto Louis’s wrist so he won’t get lost. Louis shakes him off and grabs his hand, instead, lacing their fingers together and pressing their hands against his lower back, keeping Harry as close as possible.

It’s another few minutes before they emerge from the trees, and this time they find themselves in a dark, quiet neighborhood, the streetlights only barely revealing the outlines of the little houses. The street is winding and tightly settled, the way beachfront neighborhoods always are, but through the houses Harry can see the gray strip of the sand and then the jet black water, fading perfectly into the sky somewhere along the horizon.

Louis doesn’t let go of his hand, but he does relax his arm so that Harry can comfortably walk beside him instead of behind him. Harry’s never been big on holding hands, never been big on affection in general, but something about this is so nice, so natural, so comfortable. He thinks he understands what Louis was talking about before, about walking at night. Each and every window they pass is dark and blacked out, and the entire neighborhood is silent, unmoving. It really feels like it’s just the two of them in the world, nothing living and breathing but him and Louis, fingers still intertwined, their footsteps bouncing around the quiet street while the waves crash a world away on the bay.

It’s low tide, Harry can smell it from here, but once they weave their way through the last row of houses and the beach comes into view, it’s like the sand stretches on for miles before the water frays the edge. They cross one last street, and then Louis pauses, stooping down to pick something up out of the sand.

“Take your shoes off,” Louis says, straightening up with his shoes in his free hand.

“What?” Harry asks.

“Feel the sand on your toes,” Louis says, kicking a little bit of sand at him as if to demonstrate. The sand goes right down inside Harry’s sneaker, so he figures he might as well take them off anyway, dropping Louis’s hand just long enough to pull his socks off and stuff them both inside his right shoe.

The sand is soft as silk under Harry’s feet, and still warm, somehow, from the sunny afternoon. It’s not like Harry’s never walked on sand before, like he doesn’t know what it feels like, but he thinks he’s never felt it like this, like he can feel the sensation throughout his whole body. Louis doesn’t hold his hand again, but he keeps bumping his knuckles against Harry’s like he wants to. Harry wishes he was brave enough to latch on.

They walk for a while, seemingly with no destination, but Louis promised to show him something, and Harry’s almost desperate to see it. He’s afraid to ask what it is, afraid to spoil the surprise, so he doesn’t, just watches Louis out of the corner of his eye and revels in the warmth that tingles in his chest every time Louis smiles to himself at whatever’s going on inside his head.

Louis starts to laugh after a few minutes, tilting his head back toward the sky and giggling like the clouds are telling jokes. With no warning at all, he takes off at a sprint, laughing brightly all the while.

“Um,” Harry calls after him, stopping dead in his tracks. “What are you doing?”

“Run!” Louis squeals, grinning at him over his shoulder. 

Only then does Harry feel the first raindrop against his cheek, and then another on his nose, big, fat drops dotting the sand and the sleeves of his sweatshirt. Louis’s already several yards ahead of him, so Harry picks up his pace, sprinting some terrible form in the sand after Louis’s retreating figure. 

Louis is still laughing, leaping and twirling like he’s escaped some kind of cartoon, or maybe a fairytale. Harry can’t help but smile, too, just watching him; every time Louis stumbles and trips in the sand, he just laughs a little harder, like he’s incapable of feeling embarrassed, or hurt. Harry wants to learn everything he can from this boy, wants to catch him and keep him in a jar just to observe him, maybe leech some of that bottomless pool of positivity for himself.

It starts raining in earnest without a moment’s notice, and suddenly Harry is drenched, scrambling to pull his hood up over his head as he runs. Louis doesn’t bother with his hood, though, stops in his tracks to tilt his head back to the sky again, letting the rain wash over him like he’s in a movie, or something. 

Harry grabs him as he passes, tugging him right along down the beach. Louis shrieks his laughter and tugs back, breaking their balance and knocking both of them right off their feet.

Harry hits the ground first, very narrowly avoids getting a mouthful of sand, and then Louis trips right over him with his momentum, landing mostly on top of him. Louis’s laughing harder than ever, and Harry’s finding it completely impossible to be annoyed, climbing out from under Louis just to climb on top of him and wrestle him a little deeper into the sand.

Louis puts up one hell of a fight, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist and flipping the whole world upside down much more quickly than Harry was expecting. Louis’s strong, for someone so small, and he’s fast, too, jumping up to his feet and taking off again like he isn’t bogged down in a soaking wet hoodie and jeans.

They chase each other all the way to the point of the bay, where the sand gives way to massive boulders, smooth from the ocean, and piled high into a makeshift cliff face. Louis starts climbing a bit less recklessly than he was running, but probably still too fast, slipping a little over one of the rocks.

“Hey,” Harry says, grabbing Louis’s ankle to steady him. “Careful.”

“Thanks, June Bug,” Louis says, grinning at Harry over his shoulder and then hoisting himself up over the rocks.

Harry follows him all the way up, careful not to look down before he reaches solid land. Funny, he thinks, how earlier tonight he stood on the side of a bridge, ready to jump, and now he can’t think of a single thing he’d like to do less than to fall.

Louis waits for him at the top, helps him pull himself up over the last few boulders, and then plants his hands on Harry’s shoulders to turn him around. “Look,” he says, gesturing out toward the ocean. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Harry can see the storm all the way out on the horizon, the flashes of lightning followed distantly by the low rumble of thunder. It is beautiful, he’ll admit. Maybe there are some things he’d regret missing out on in life.

“C’mon,” Louis says, tugging at his elbow. “Just a little further.”

The beach grass is almost as tall as Harry up here, but the plateau isn’t big enough to hide the structure Louis’s leading him toward. It’s a lifeguard tower, as old as time itself, by the looks of it, with all its chipped white paint and the rickety ladder leading to the entrance.

“It’s sturdy, I promise,” Louis says, as if he can read Harry’s mind. He goes up the ladder first, and Harry follows him without a second thought, leaning back against the far wall of the tower beside Louis and watching the sky through the gap between the railing and the roof. The rain is so much louder in here, somehow, with the raindrops beating down hard against the wooden roof, but it’s peaceful, too, in a romantic sort of way.

“How’d you know about this place?” Harry asks, just loud enough to be heard over the rain.

“Found it one night when I was exploring with some friends,” Louis says. “It’s cool, isn’t it?”

“Kinda pointless,” Harry shrugs. 

Louis doesn’t say anything for a minute, but then he turns to look at Harry, trying to hide the hurt expression on his face.

“The tower, I mean,” Harry says quickly. “Like, what’s a lifeguard going to do all the way up here, y’know? They’d break their neck trying to get down those rocks with any sort of haste, and by the time they got down to the beach, the kid will have already drowned,” he says.

Louis huffs a laugh, relaxing back against the wall again. “That’s true,” he says. “I’ve never thought of that.”

“Maybe that’s why it’s abandoned,” Harry muses.

“Lucky for us,” Louis says.

“Lucky?” Harry asks.

“Because now we have a cool place to sit and watch storms,” Louis says. “Or, y’know, whatever else people might get up to in here.”

“What, um,” Harry clears his throat. “What else might people get up to in here?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, June Bug,” Louis teases. “If you want to kiss me, just do it.”

Harry’s stomach drops all the way to the beach, but Louis’s grinning when he glances over at him. Harry smiles back, albeit hesitantly, and Louis puckers his lips in a way that might be joking, but it might also be an invitation, or maybe a little bit of both.

 _You can’t just be happy all the time, y’know_ , Louis’s voice echoes in Harry’s mind. _You have to look for things that make you feel good._

He leans in before he can talk himself out of it. Louis meets him halfway, touches his cheek with his cold, sandy fingers, and kisses him like he’s been thinking about it all night. He tastes like clean rainwater and sweat, like sunshine and herbal tea, like a moment that Harry wants to exist in forever.

Louis nudges the hood off of Harry’s head with the back of his hand and Harry shifts to get closer, throwing one leg over Louis’s lap and holding him by the shoulders. Louis giggles into his mouth and wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, lets it go on for as long as Harry wants, until Harry pulls away breathless and boneless and helpless to the light in Louis’s eyes.

“Man,” Louis breathes, twirling his fingers in the hair at the base of Harry’s neck.

“Thank you,” Harry says, forcing himself to keep looking at Louis’s eyes, even when they sparkle so bright Harry thinks he might go blind. 

“For what?” Louis asks, like he really doesn’t know.

“For,” Harry hesitates, finally losing to the urge to drop his eyes. “For asking me for a light.”

Louis doesn’t laugh, the way Harry expects him to. He smiles instead, something a little softer, a little more genuine than Harry’s seem from him yet, and cocks his head. “You’re welcome.”

Harry ducks his head and shifts on Louis’s lap, resting his cheek against Louis’s chest and letting his arms curl naturally around Louis’s waist. Louis holds him instinctually, still playing with his soaking wet hair, while the world washes away around them.

“Can I ask you something?” Louis says quietly. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Yeah,” Harry says.

“Would you have done it?” Louis asks. “If no one came along, I mean? Would you have, y’know, jumped?”

Harry doesn’t answer for a minute, pries his eyes open and then reaches up to touch his eyelashes with his fingertip, just to check that they really are open.

“I could’ve sworn I was looking at the water,” he says quietly. “Before you came over. I was staring at the river, at the reflection of the sky, and the moon.”

“The moon?” Louis asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says.

“It’s a new moon tonight,” Louis says. “There’s— there’s no moon tonight.”

Harry curls in on himself a little bit, resisting the urge to press his face into Louis’s chest and cry. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him; he’s more fucked up than he thought he was, hallucinating stuff, seeing things that aren’t even there.

“You know what I think?” Louis says, but his voice is low, shy, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to say it. 

“What?” Harry asks, eyes falling closed again.

“I think,” Louis says, “that you didn’t want to do it.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t respond at all, just sniffles tiredly and waits for Louis to go on.

“I think that if you wanted to do it, you would’ve already done it,” Louis says. “I could see you standing there from pretty far away, y’know, and you were there for a while, and I don’t even know how long before I got there. I think that if you wanted to do it, you would’ve done it, but you didn’t. You were waiting for something to happen, weren’t you? Waiting for something to come along and either push you over the edge or pull you back from it.”

“Maybe,” Harry mumbles.

“I think you had your eyes closed because you couldn’t stand the waiting, June Bug, right? You were standing there, on the edge of the abyss, looking death right in the face, and you couldn’t look any longer. You couldn’t be the one to end it all, because that’s not what you really want,” Louis says.

“What do I really want, then?” Harry asks.

“To belong,” Louis says. “To feel happy, and useful, and appreciated. You told me you want to make things, right? Art? And you’re afraid you’ve missed your chance. But chances aren’t like lives, June Bug. You don’t only get one. You get as many as you’re willing to give yourself, all you’ve got to do is cross the bridge instead of jumping over it,” he says.

“For the record,” Harry says, voice as weak as he feels, “I wasn’t going to jump.”

“You weren’t?” Louis asks.

“I was going to lean against the railing until it broke,” Harry says. “So that, when they found me, my parents would blame the town for the shitty bridge instead of blaming themselves.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, just hugs Harry a little tighter. 

“I think that proves you right, though,” Harry admits. “I didn’t want to do it, I just wanted it to happen.”

Louis strokes his hair, thinking it over for a moment or two. “Not to criticize your suicide technique,” he says, “but I think that’s the way you’re going through life, too, is it not? You want to make art, but you don’t want to put in the work to make it good, you just want it to happen. You can’t just sit around waiting for life to happen to you, June Bug, _Harry_. You’ve got to make things happen.”

“I don’t know how,” Harry says. 

“You’ve got time to figure it out,” Louis says. “It might get harder, but it will definitely get easier someday.”

Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment, but he sits up eventually, watching Louis curiously.

“How’d you know I wanted to kiss you?” he asks.

“I didn’t,” Louis says. “I was just hoping.”

“Making things happen,” Harry says. 

“I guess so,” Louis says, cracking a sleepy smile.

“Do you have to get home?” Harry asks.

“Not yet,” Louis says. “Do you?”

“No,” Harry says, but he climbs off of Louis anyway, settling back down beside him. Louis leans into him, like he isn’t keen on letting him get too far away, and Harry’s glad for the warmth, his sweatshirt still heavy and cold against his skin.

He loses track of things for a little while, not quite asleep, but far from awake. The rain lets up bit by bit as the storm rolls out over the bay, and the next time Harry opens his eyes, the world is awash with orange and gold, sparkling over the ocean and making the inside of the lifeguard tower glow.

Louis is asleep on his shoulder, mouth opened slightly, face peaceful and relaxed. He’s even more beautiful this morning than he seemed last night, even with his hair all matted down from the rain, his eyes dark and puffy when he blinks them open and looks up at Harry.

“Good morning,” he says, sitting up to stretch and yawn and smile at the sky. Harry can’t take his eyes off of him. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“We should head back to town,” Harry says. “If I’m not home before my parents wake up, they’ll ask questions.”

“Are you feeling better today?” Louis asks, like he didn’t hear a word Harry said. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry says. “It’s not, y’know— it’s day to day,” he mumbles.

Louis reaches over for his hand just to squeeze it, smiling when Harry manages to meet his eye. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “It’s a long walk back.”

It is, indeed, a long walk back, longer than Harry remembers it. Everything looks so different in the light of day, and Harry’s exhausted right down to his bones, in more ways than one. Crossing the highway is harder this time, less fun, and Louis stays on the sidewalk with him the entire way back through town, like he’s too tired now to dance in the street. They stop in the bend in the road between Louis’s house and the old wooden bridge, and Louis leans up to kiss Harry’s cheek, pulling away smiling.

“Bye, June Bug,” he says, taking a few steps backwards in the direction of his Nan’s house without taking his eyes off of Harry.

“Wait, take your sweatshirt back,” Harry says, pulling it off over his head and making to close the distance again.

“Keep it,” Louis says, grinning a little wider. “Until next time.”

“Next time?” Harry says.

Louis winks at him, and then, just like that, he’s gone, wandering off around the bend and disappearing from sight. Harry balls up the sweatshirt in his hands, still damp and sandy, and hugs it against his chest, forcing his feet to turn him around and start moving in the direction of the bridge.

He lingers for a few minutes at the edge of the road, staring across to the other side of the bridge, where the road to his neighborhood disappears into the trees. The sky is getting overcast again, like the rain is waiting for its chance to begin again, and it takes all of Harry’s willpower to get one foot up on the bridge, and then the other, the wood creaking almost imperceptibly under his feet.

He meanders across it, eyes glued to the road on the other side, but by the time he reaches the middle of the bridge, he can’t stand it any longer. _Make something happen_ , he thinks, _don’t just wait around_.

He finds himself at the railing before he’s made the conscious decision to be there, and this time, he makes sure his eyes are open, focusing on the feeling of the breeze against his wet eyes as he peers over the railing, blinking once, twice, three times at the water rushing below. He’s careful not to lean against the railing; if something happens now, it’s going to be because of _him_ , not because of luck or chance, or the lack thereof.

The sound of the river is haunting, violent, so much less peaceful than the sound of the water at the bay. _Keep going_ , he wants to tell the rivulets on the surface of the stream. _Keep moving, it gets so much better once you make it to the bay_.

He kicks his shoes off against the railing, stooping down to gather them both in one hand. Keeping one eye on the water, he knocks the heels of his sneakers against the railing, watching all the sand gathered in the soles float down to the river, disappearing before they’ve even touched the surface.

He thinks, not for the first time, about what it would be like to float down there, too. He’d hit the surface, he knows that much, and it would feel like concrete from this high up, but he’d sink into it, anyway, and he’d keep his head down under the water while the current rushed him out toward the bay. He wouldn’t make it all the way to the bay, he’s sure; his body would, if it didn’t get caught in the reeds, but he’d be long gone before then, and the shell that remained would be just as empty as it already feels, sometimes.

Something makes a sound nearby that makes him jump, tearing his eyes away from the water. He catches sight of the beetle as soon as it chirps again, making its way along the railing, entirely unconcerned with Harry and whether he exists or not.

Harry chooses to keep his eyes on the June bug, following its snail’s pace along the railing. It doesn’t seem to have any sort of destination in mind, but once it reaches the end of the railing at the other side of the bridge, it makes its way down, down, down the post, and then disappears into the brush off the side of the road.

Harry glances back at the bridge from the other side, looks down just long enough to put his shoes back on, and then forces himself to turn away. The further he gets from the bridge, the fainter the sound of the water becomes, and the duller the edge of his thoughts, and the sand is rushing back to the bay and Harry’s going home, bathed in the light that put an end to another long, restless night.


	2. Chapter 2

The sky is awash up and down the bay in blooms of color and light, ash falling like snow upon the faces of the spectators dotted along the sand. There are hundreds of people, maybe thousands, and Harry’s checked, but he doesn’t know a single one of them. He’s been curled up in a lawn chair nursing the same beer for over an hour now, and his eyes keep drifting to one side of the bay in particular, as if a familiar face will appear out of thin air if he just looks hard enough.

The fireworks are loud enough that Harry doesn’t have to worry about trying to force conversation with anyone— not that anyone would be talking to him, anyway. He lost his mother hours ago to a group of her old PTA lady friends, and his father doesn’t seem too keen on sticking around, either, drifting closer and closer to the other beer-drinking dads every time Harry looks up. Harry just wants to go home, honestly; he doesn’t see what’s so great about the fourth of July, anyway, and he could really do without the ringing in his ears after each and every firework that explodes above him. 

He wonders how old he’ll have to be before his parents feel as though they’ve lost the authority necessary to drag him to things like this. He’s twenty-two, so it’s got to be soon. Maybe it won’t be until he moves out, though, or until he’s dead. Who knows how long that will be. 

Once he’s lost his father for good to the other fathers in vests and knee-length canvas shorts, he tips back the last sip of his beer and picks himself up out of his lawn chair, wandering off in search of one of the trash bags that have been precariously pinned up to the chain link fences that separate the edge of the beach from the street. He keeps walking after he’s tossed the can, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and keeping his head down as he makes his way toward the point of the bay. 

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, really, if anything at all, but once he’s gotten to the point and climbed up the little mountain of boulders, he knows he hasn’t found it. The old lifeguard tower is full of kids, rotten teenagers, by the looks of it, probably doing unspeakable things to Harry’s newfound favorite place. Harry rolls his eyes and keeps walking, rounding the edge of the point and following the lightly trodden trail that leads back down toward the road.

The sound of the fireworks fades the further he gets from the bay, but he still feels hyper aware of each explosion, like they’re setting off the projectiles right inside of his skull. The streets are dark and empty, but Harry can still hear all the people in the distance laughing and all the children screaming and he hates each and every single one of them in a very particular way, a way he’ll never quite be able to understand. It’s something about the world, something about the futility of all of it, all of the meaningless tradition and blind patriotism, that gets under his skin like a needle and leaves an ink stain he just can’t forget about.

He starts heading home without really meaning to, cutting through the path in the woods that takes him out to the highway. There are more cars on the road than he’s expecting, given that it’s fireworks o’clock in Small Town America, and as tempting as the thought of being run over by a car might have been a few weeks ago, he can’t really find it in himself to hop the guardrail and run out into traffic right this minute. He finds a fallen tree just inside the treeline, safely in the shadows, and sits down to watch the traffic go by like his own little show of lights.

He loses track of time, counting the cars on the road in twos and threes for what might be hours, might be minutes. At some point he’ll have to get up and head back to the beach, hunt down his parents and wait to be driven home like a child, but he figures he can wait until the sound of the fireworks dies down a little, which it has yet to do. 

The colored lights reflect off some of the cars that soar past him, shining over the tinted windows like he’s watching a screen. It makes him a little dizzy, trying to focus on the colors on their fleeting backdrops, but the sound of tires screeching against asphalt brings him back to reality all at once.

He looks over just in time to watch the car veer off into the breakdown lane a few yards past him, brake lights glowing angry red and then softening into reverse lights. Harry watches in horror, frozen in place as the car backs recklessly down the breakdown lane and comes to a lurching halt right in front of him.

He’s too startled to get up and make a run for it when the passenger door window rolls down, an equally startled young man staring back at him. Harry blinks, standing up slowly, waiting for his limbs to get the memo to get the _fuck_ out of here. 

“Wait!” calls a familiar voice, before Harry can even turn away from the car. “June Bug!”

Harry freezes, looking up at the wide-eyed boy in the passenger seat again. The boy glances quickly to his left, and Harry follows his gaze, ducking a little to look into the car.

“Louis?”

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Louis asks, putting the car in park, finally. 

“I was,” Harry says, frowning. “I don’t know. Getting away from the noise?”

“The fireworks?” Louis says. “Fuck that.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, limbs still tingling with the confusion of disbelief. “Fuck that.”

“Hey, come with us,” Louis says, nudging the boy in the passenger seat quite hard. “Liam, get in the back.”

“There’s no room in the back,” the other boy, Liam, whines. 

“How’d you see me?” Harry asks, hoping to deflect Louis’s invitation, distract him long enough to escape. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Louis, not at all; he hasn’t seen Louis again since that first night, when Louis found him on the bridge. That was over a week ago, and Harry was beginning to think that Louis was just a figment of his imagination. He’s been out every night, wandering up and down the bridge and along the road near Louis’s house, but Louis never turned up. Harry’s overjoyed to discover that he didn’t, in fact, dream Louis up, but he’s not had time to mentally prepare himself to get into a car full of strangers tonight, and he isn’t keen on the idea of doing such a thing on the fly.

“You gave Niall the spook of a lifetime,” Louis says, gesturing to the guy in the seat behind Liam’s.

“You really did,” the guy says through the gap between the window and Liam’s headrest.

“He said there was someone just sitting in the woods, and I just had a feeling I knew who it was,” Louis says, still hunched over to grin at Harry, eyes sparkling with the colors of the fireworks over the treeline.

“Oh,” Harry says, smiling tentatively in return. “Okay, well, I should probably get back, my parents will be—”

“No,” Louis whines, “come hang out with us!”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Harry says.

“Nonsense,” Louis says, shoving at Liam again. “Liam, let him have shotgun.”

Liam groans. “But—”

“There’s plenty of room back there, Liam, touching thighs with Niall won’t make you gay,” Louis says. Liam huffs and pushes the car door open, smiling politely at Harry and then sliding into the backseat.

“Are you sure?” Harry says, even as he climbs into the car. “Maybe you could just drive me home, or—”

“Do you want to go home?” Louis asks, watching Harry carefully. Something about him, something in his eyes, makes Harry feel like lying to him isn’t an option, like Louis would know right away, like he already knows the truth, but he just wants to give Harry a chance to say it.

“No,” Harry confesses.

“Great,” Louis says, eyes twinkling again. “Buckle up, then, because I wasn’t lying when I told you I’m a terrible driver, and the highway is, like, boss level.”

Harry fumbles to fasten his seatbelt, and just like that, Louis is lurching back into traffic, earning himself a few angry honks from other drivers.

“So, what’s your name, again?” says one of the boys in the backseat, Harry can’t tell which. 

“June Bug,” Louis says, before Harry can say anything.

“June Bug?” the same voice repeats. “Is that, like, Native American?”

“Niall, that’s racist,” someone else hisses.

“Oh, fuck, is it? I’m sorry—”

“It’s not Native American,” Harry says. “It’s— it’s not my name, actually—”

“It’s a nickname, Niall, ever heard of it?” Louis says.

“Bitchy,” Niall mutters. “Okay, June Bug, how d’you know Louis, and why’s he so guard-dog over you?”

“I am not guard-dog,” Louis says. “I’m— I’m supportive acquaintance,” he shrugs.

“So that means you’ve kissed him,” says a third voice from the backseat, one Harry’s not yet familiar with. Well, to be honest, he’s not familiar with any of them, and the reminder of that is making his spine tingle, like he needs to get out of the car and run. “Nice going, June Bug, that’s not an easy feat.”

“Shut the fuck up, Zayn,” Louis hisses. “Just because I don’t wanna make out with you when we smoke weed doesn’t mean I’m a prude.”

“Maybe not,” Zayn says, “but the fact that you _are_ a prude sort of negates that sentiment.”

“You also didn’t deny that you’ve kissed,” Niall says. “Boys, I think our little Boobear’s growing up—”

“Shut up,” Louis says loudly. “God, it’s a wonder no one ever wants to hang out with us, you guys are so _fucking_ annoying—”

“We’re not annoying!” Liam gasps.

“June Bug, are we annoying you?” Niall asks, peeking around Harry’s seat to look at him.

“Um,” Harry says, staring intently at the road. “No.”

“Oh shit,” Niall says.

“We totally are,” Liam says.

“Sorry for bringing up kissing,” Zayn says, like a child who’s been scolded. 

“Zayn, I swear to god,” Louis mutters.

“How did you meet, though?” Niall asks again. “Did you already answer that? Did he answer that?”

“We met a few weeks ago,” Louis says. “He came into the bar, we went for a walk after my shift. Any other questions, officer?”

“Officer?” Niall says, “ooh, are we roleplaying?”

“A walk, hm?” Zayn says. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Oh my god,” Louis says. “We’re here. Get out of my car.”

Harry glances out the window while the others pile out of the car, but it’s too dark to really make anything out. Louis’s at the passenger door before Harry’s even got it all the way open, pulling Harry into the shadows of the building they’ve parked in front of while the other rustle around in the trunk of Louis’s car.

“I’m so sorry,” Louis says. “I didn’t think they’d be so— are you okay? Do you want me to bring you home?” he asks, voice hushed.

“No, I’m okay, they’re okay,” Harry says. It’s mostly true.

“Just let me know if you’re not having fun, okay? No questions asked, I’ll take you home, and— wait, is that my hoodie?” Louis asks, eyes catching on the logo on Harry’s chest.

Harry looks down, finding that it is, in fact, Louis’s hoodie. He’s grateful for the cover of the shadows, because he can feel himself flush, laughing awkwardly under his breath. “Maybe?”

Louis laughs, nudging Harry with his elbow. “What, have you just been wearing it around, hoping to run into me so you could give it back?”

Harry, out of all the flirty, acceptable responses he could give, decides to say, “I like the way it smells.”

Louis blinks. “You do?”

“I washed it,” Harry says. “But it still kinda smells like cigarette smoke.”

Louis sticks his face right into Harry’s chest, getting a whiff of the sweatshirt. “I guess so,” Louis says. “Everything I own smells like that, it’s hard to notice, I guess.”

“I like it,” Harry says. “I don’t know anyone else who smokes.”

Louis grins at him, Harry can see it even in the dark. “Oh,” he says, looking down. “Well—”

“Louis, June Bug, are you guys coming, or what?” Niall calls, leaning around the door of the building, light spilling over him from inside. “Thanks for the help with the bags, by the way.”

“Sorry,” Louis laughs, grabbing Harry’s hand and tugging him along up the front steps to where Niall is waiting at the door.

It’s an apartment building, one of those crappy little two story ones with the balcony on the front, littered around this area almost as abundantly as the strip malls. The staircase to the second floor has seen better days, and the floor creaks under Harry’s feet all the way, like the weight of one more person might just be too much for it to handle. Harry feels wildly out of place, holding his own hands inside the pocket of Louis’s hoodie, as Louis leads him through the door at the top of the stairs and into an apartment as run down and weary as the staircase.

The first thing Harry notices is the smell, a pungent mixture of weed and cigarettes, and the balcony door being propped open does nothing to fight it. Niall and Liam are unpacking several paper bags of booze in the kitchenette, and Zayn is sitting cross legged on the mattress pushed into the corner of the room, a pack of White Claws already opened in front of him.

“Welcome,” Louis says, “to casa de Zayn.”

“Sorry it’s disgusting,” Zayn says. “Would you believe me if I said it was already like this when I moved in?”

“It actually was, mostly,” Louis says. “We really only contributed the weed smell to the overall disgustingness of the place.”

“You live here by yourself?” Harry asks, walking over to glance out the door to the balcony. He can see the bay from here, fireworks still going strong, but they’re far enough away that he can barely hear the noise.

“Just me, myself, and I,” Zayn says. “Home, shitty home.”

“Is it expensive?” Harry asks.

“Does it look expensive?” Zayn says.

“Are you thinking of getting your own place?” Louis asks. 

“No,” Harry says. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Don’t do it,” Zayn says. “Live with your parents as long as they’ll let you, man, trust me.”

“Did my parents tell you to say that?” Harry asks, plopping down on the ratty couch near the bed. Zayn snorts a laugh, and Louis sits down on the sofa beside Harry, so close that their knees are touching.

“You look sorta familiar,” Niall says, sitting down on the carpet in front of the couch and frowning curiously up at Harry. “Did you go to Bayview?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. Come to think of it, Niall looks sort of familiar, too, except he’s got brown hair now, and Harry’s pretty sure he remembers him with braces on his teeth. “You were a sophomore when I was a freshman.”

“No way,” Niall laughs. “You remember me?”

“I sat behind you in precalc,” Harry says, “first period. You used to stretch back in your chair every single morning and knock my coffee over with your head,” he says.

“Oh, shit,” Niall says, “you’re Gemma’s brother!”

“Gemma Styles?” Liam asks from somewhere over Harry’s shoulder, still in the kitchen.

Just like that, the illusion is shattered. Harry is no longer the mysterious June Bug who may or may not have kissed their prudish friend, he’s just Gemma Styles’s little brother whose first name no one knows, or cares to know, the way he has been his whole life.

“Liam graduated with her,” Niall says, like an excuse. “I just thought she was hot.”

“Niall,” Louis hisses.

“Everyone thinks she’s hot,” Harry says. “I’m used to it.”

“What’s she up to?” Liam asks, finally coming to join the party, stretching out on the floor beside Niall. “I never really knew her, but she dated—”

“Trevor Berry, your friend,” Harry says. “Yeah. You came to our house one time, in the summer, when Gemma was home from college.”

“That’s crazy,” Liam says. “How do you remember that?”

Harry shrugs, looks down to pick at his fingernails, and doesn’t say that he remembers that night because Trevor got drunk, wandered into Harry’s bedroom to change instead of Gemma’s, soaking wet and shaking in his swimming shorts, and a few very short minutes later Harry ended up having his first kiss with a boy against his own bedroom door with his sister’s boyfriend. He doesn’t say that the reason Trevor broke up with Gemma the week after the party was because Harry threatened to tell Gemma if Trevor didn’t, and he doesn’t say that he never ended up telling anyone because he was so ashamed, felt so dirty about the whole thing. “Good memory,” he says instead, accepting the mango White Claw that Zayn tosses his way.

“What other memories do you have about these two goons?” Zayn asks. “Anything embarrassing?”

“Oh no,” Niall says.

“I was there when—”

“Don’t say it,” Niall begs.

“—Niall asked Jenny—”

“No!”

“—Tompkins to prom,” Harry says.

“That was the worst day of my life,” Niall says, hanging his head in shame. “I bought a banner and everything, and she rejected me in front of the entire cafeteria.”

“You got the lunch ladies to do a flash mob,” Harry says. “It’s a wonder she didn’t drop out of school.”

Niall groans and hides his face, curling into himself while the others laugh. “I would do anything to see video footage of that,” Louis giggles, squeezing Harry’s knee. “Genuinely, anything.”

“It wasn’t pretty,” Harry assures him.

“Man, I wish I went to Bayview,” Zayn sighs. “That sounds like so much more fun than private school.”

The conversation devolves into stories from Zayn’s 99.9% white graduating class, but Harry tunes most of it out, leaning back against the couch and swallowing his drink in long gulps. Louis keeps touching him, patting his leg, nudging his foot, poking him with his elbow, but Harry doesn’t really want to be here anymore. He almost liked it better when he thought he had dreamed Louis up, when Louis was a portal to a world outside of this life he’s so tired of. Now, Louis is best friends with people Harry went to high school with. He’s probably heard stories about Harry’s sister, maybe even about Harry himself. He can’t escape, he thinks to himself, he is completely tangled and trapped in this world, and for the first time since that night on the bridge, all he can think about is finding a way out.

He puts his empty can down on the floor once he’s finished his drink, getting up off the couch without a word and accidentally drawing the attention of the entire room. “That drink went right to my head,” he lies, faking a lopsided smile. He’s never been so sober in his life. “I’m gonna get some air.”

No one stops him as he ducks out onto the balcony, pushing the door closed behind himself. The balcony isn’t high enough to any real damage, but that’s not what he came out here for, not really. Even if they were thirty floors up, he couldn’t do it here, with the risk of traumatizing all of those lovely people inside Zayn’s apartment.

He wishes he could just relax, could just put all of this insecurity and weird self-loathing aside and have a nice night with some unexpected new friends, but he can’t stop thinking about the magic of that first night he met Louis, about where the magic has disappeared to. Every night for the past week and a half he’s been dreaming of Louis, every morning he’s woken up thinking about him, wondering if he’d ever see him again, if Louis was even real. Louis’s just a regular person, though, he’s not Harry’s saviour, he’s not an angel. He’s just a person, just like Harry, and Harry’s ashamed that he let himself believe otherwise.

The door opens before he’s had a chance to air his brain out, but Harry can tell by the footsteps that it’s only Louis. It’s funny, he thinks, that this is only the second time he’s ever met Louis, but he thinks he’d know the sound of those footsteps anywhere in the world.

“Hey,” Louis says, leaning against the half wall of concrete separating Harry from the open air. “You alright, June Bug?”

“I went to high school with your friends,” Harry says, staring out at the bay in the distance. There’s still a rogue firework every now and again, but it seems to have died down a little, and Harry’s parents are probably wondering where he’s gone.

“You did,” Louis says. “They seem to think you’re pretty cool.”

“What’d they say about me when I came out here?” Harry asks, his spine tingling at the thought of them talking about him when he wasn’t there to hear.

“Liam said you looked a bit pale,” Louis says. “Niall asked again how we met.”

“What’d you tell them?” Harry asks.

“Same thing I told them before,” Louis says. “That you came into the bar I work at, and we walked to the beach after my shift.”

Louis works in a bar. He’s a _person_. “Why don’t you tell them the truth?”

“I— do you want me to?” Louis stutters. “I didn’t think— I mean, it’s kinda— y’know, personal,” he says.

“You didn’t tell them about me after the fact?” Harry asks. “You didn’t run to your friends to tell them how you saved this poor kid from jumping off a bridge?”

“Are you—” Louis hesitates. “Are you mad at me, or something?”

“No,” Harry says, too quickly. “I just think that the first thing I would do after something like that is go make sure everyone knows I’m a hero.”

Louis doesn’t say anything for a moment, staring down over the side of the balcony. “I don’t feel like a hero,” he admits, finally. “I didn’t tell them after because I— it wasn’t my story to tell.”

“Whose story is it?” Harry asks.

“Yours?” Louis squeaks out, like he’s answering a rhetorical question.

“Did you not tell them because you thought I might become part of your life, in some way?” Harry asks. “And you didn’t want them to think of me as the unstable, suicidal freak you dragged off a bridge?”

“Harry,” Louis says lowly.

“June Bug,” Harry says, closing his eyes.

“Harry,” Louis insists. “I’m not worried about what they think. I’m worried about what _you’re_ thinking.”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Harry says.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Louis asks.

That’s not what Harry meant. “Maybe,” he says. “Yeah.”

Louis’s shoulders slump like he’s disappointed, but Harry pretends not to notice. He doesn’t want to have to walk back through Zayn’s apartment to get out, but he does, gives everyone one last friendly smile and pretends to be drunk enough that Louis has to lead him out the door, but the second the door closes behind them, all he wants to do is cry.

Louis leads him down the stairs and out to the car, and Harry manages to keep it together until they get back to town, until he has to start talking to help Louis find his house. He lives on the other side of the river, and Louis doesn’t know this part of town very well. Harry loathes the reminder that Louis is every bit as real and complex as he is.

“The gray one,” he says, as Louis’s car rolls down his street. “Right here.”

“Can we hang out again sometime?” Louis asks, stopping the car in the street instead of Harry’s driveway. The lights are off; his parents aren’t home yet.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just unbuckles his seatbelt and slips Louis’s hoodie off over his head. Louis looks scared when Harry glances over at him, accepting the hoodie wearily. 

“Maybe,” he says, pulling at his t-shirt subconsciously as he gets out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

He shuts the door before Louis can say anything, but he only makes it halfway up the driveway before someone grabs his elbow, and he turns around just in time for a pair of warm lips to crash into his own. He kisses back instinctually, and Louis drapes something over his shoulders, something warm and heavy.

“Hold onto it,” Louis says, pulling away and wrapping the sleeves of his hoodie around Harry’s neck like a scarf. “Until I see you next.”

“I don’t need it,” Harry says quietly.

“You might,” Louis says, a little desperately. “You might need it. It’s a cold walk from here to the door, y’know.” He’s supposed to sound like he’s joking, but he means it, Harry can tell.

“I think I’ll make it,” he says.

“Meet me tomorrow?” Louis say. “We can get lunch. Please?”

Harry swallows hard, shrugs one shoulder.

“That cafe down by the beach,” Louis says. “I forget what it’s called, but it’s pink on the outside. Meet me there at noon?”

Harry nods, if only so that Louis will feel better. Louis grins, kissing Harry’s lips one more time.

“I like you, Harry,” Louis says quietly.

“June Bug,” Harry whispers. 

“Harry.”

-

The beach is littered with bottles and cans the following day, despite the town’s half-assed effort to line the entire bay with garbage bags. It’s already quarter to one; Harry’s been here for twenty minutes, but he’s yet to get out of the car, watching a seagull peck at a dented Budweiser can through the windshield.

Louis’s car was already here when Harry got here, and that’s part of the reason he hasn’t even turned his mom’s minivan off yet. He knows Louis is inside, waiting for him, and he can’t stand the thought of that, but he also can’t stand the thought of seeing him. Louis was worried last night, when he dropped Harry off. He was scared, afraid that Harry might do something while he wasn’t there to save him from himself. Harry appreciates it, really, but he thinks he might be past the point where being saved helps more than it hurts.

It’s been years since someone has been interested in Harry for himself, and not for some ulterior motive. It’s been years since Harry’s heard someone use his name like a term of endearment, and not like an accusation. Louis refused to use his nickname last night, the nickname that Louis himself gave to him. _I like you, Harry_. Harry. _I like you_ , he said, _Harry_ , not Gemma’s brother, not Anne’s son. Not June Bug. Harry.

He turns off the car when the seagull gives up on the empty Budweiser can, and once the engine is cut, he can hear the sound of the waves, the sound of more seagulls in the distance. His ears ring with the memory of last night, the fireworks, the reminder of his place in the world while he was feeling out of place in Zayn’s apartment. He feels like a drop of oil in a cup of water, chemically unable to assimilate, no matter how hard he tries.

Louis is sitting alone at a table near the window when Harry finally makes his way into the cafe. He’s already watching Harry by the time Harry spots him, but he makes no effort to flag him down, just watching him intently. Harry slips into the seat across from him, and Louis pushes the plate of home fries in front of him toward the middle of the table.

“I didn’t think you were going to show up,” Louis says.

“Neither did I,” Harry says.

“I was worried,” Louis says.

“Yeah,” Harry says.

Louis takes a sip of coffee from the mug he’s cradling, and Harry winces. Coffee and home fries aren’t a very good combination, he thinks. Then again, it doesn’t seem like Louis touched either of them before Harry came in.

“The guys were worried about you, too,” Louis says after a few minutes. “They were worried they upset you.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just pushes his fingertip into one of the home fries on the edge of the plate. It gives immediately, the way cooked potatoes do, and squashes down to mush under his finger.

“Did they?” Louis asks.

“What?”

“Upset you?”

“No,” Harry says. “No, they didn’t.”

“Did I?” Louis asks.

“No,” Harry says again, but with slightly less conviction.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said,” Louis says. “About me not wanting my friends to think that you’re— whatever— unstable, or whatever.”

“It’d make a nice story,” Harry says, squashing another home fry. “The pretty boy in the yellow sweatshirt who teaches the depressed freak how to love.”

“Why do you talk about yourself like that?” Louis asks. 

“Like what?” Harry asks.

“Like you’re talking about somebody else. Like you’re using someone else’s words. Those aren’t words you use to talk about yourself, they’re words you picked up from someone else, and you’ve tricked yourself into believing them,” Louis says.

“If you ever go to college,” Harry says, “you should major in psychology.”

“What happened to you?” Louis asks. “Whose words are those?”

Harry looks down at the table. He thinks of Trevor, and Liam, and all their friends, the washed up former Bayview varsity soccer team, one year out from their glory days, splashing around in the pool in his backyard. He thinks of himself, watching from his second story window, cataloguing all of the differences between himself and those boys. They acted like they were so cool, like they were invincible, like they were born to be a bunch of nineteen-year-old guys shotgunning beers in some girl’s backyard while her parents were away on vacation. He remembers Trevor finding him, teasing him for watching, asking if he liked the view. He remembers blushing all the way down to his chest and trying to escape, trying to duck around Trevor and get out the door, but Trevor caught him, breathed his hot laughter in his face, daring Harry to kiss him, and Harry did. He remembers Trevor looking shocked, pushing the door closed and kissing him again, the sound of the party outside fading into the outskirts of Harry’s consciousness. He remembers only opening his eyes again once Trevor was gone, dragging himself back to the widow to watch Trevor run across his backyard to kiss his sister, instead, like he could cancel out what he’d just done. He remembers discovering right then and there that there was not a single thing he liked about himself, and to this day, he’s yet to prove himself wrong about that.

“They’re mine,” he says, quietly, eyes stuck on the mutilated home fries on the plate, the evidence of what he’s done to them shining in the grease on his fingertips. 

“You should find different ones,” Louis says. “Nicer ones.”

“We’re not all hardwired to see the world through rainbows and sunbeams,” Harry mumbles. “Unfortunately.”

“Maybe not,” Louis says. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t learn.”

Harry looks up at him, studying his face for a moment. “Why do you like me?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says. “I just do.”

“You don’t know me,” Harry says. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before,” Louis says. “I know I love it when you smile.”

“I am just like everyone else you’ve ever met, I promise,” Harry scoffs.

“No,” Louis says. “You’re not.”

“I’m not?” Harry says skeptically.

“You feel things deeper,” Louis says. “You feel everything, all the time, and you don’t know what to do with it all, and it weighs you down. Most people are content to just put their head down and get through life, myself included, but you’re not. You’re struggling because you’re trying to make it all mean something, and that’s not easy to do. I don’t think you’re broken, or defective, or a freak, or whatever else. I think you’ve got more feelings than you know what to do with, and they bother you, I know, but they make you so beautiful,” he says.

“I just feel like if I could get away from here, I could make something happen,” Harry says. “But nothing ever happens, because I’m too afraid to try.”

“You’re afraid that if you try to make something happen, then something will actually happen,” Louis says.

“And I’m afraid that I won’t like it once it does,” Harry mumbles.

“There you are, darling,” says a new voice, and it makes Harry jump. He looks up quickly to find the waitress standing over him, smiling down at him patronizingly. “Your friend’s been waiting all day, honey, _I_ was about to sit down and have brunch with him.”

Louis laughs, like the interruption doesn’t make his blood boil like it does Harry’s. 

“Can I get you anything, sweetheart?” the waitress asks. Three terms of endearment in less than a minute, Harry thinks, and none of them are genuine.

“Coffee, please,” Harry says. “Iced?”

“Comin’ right up,” the waitress smiles, and then she’s gone, flittering back to wherever she came from.

“So,” Louis says, looking down at the coffee in his mug instead of at Harry. “What happened last night?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

“You seemed like you were having fun, laughing with the guys, and then all of a sudden I thought you were going to jump off Zayn’s balcony,” Louis says.

“I wasn’t going to,” Harry says. “It wasn’t high enough—”

“Harry,” Louis says.

“Talking about high school just brought up some bad memories, I guess,” Harry says, looking down.

“About Liam and Niall?” Louis asks, alarmed.

“No,” Harry says, “not specifically. Just, y’know, people.”

“They bullied you?” Louis asks.

“I bullied myself,” Harry says. “They just pretended I didn’t exist.”

“I’m confused,” Louis says.

“It’s a long story,” Harry says. “I was upset because when I met you, you seemed so different from everyone else around here, and I just— I don’t know. I thought maybe you were the thing I was meant to find, the one that would take me away from it all, y’know? You called me June Bug and made me feel special. And then, like, you’re friends with people I know from high school, and suddenly I’m just Gemma’s nameless little brother again,” he says. “Here I was thinking I was getting my chance to start over, just to find myself right back in the place I was trying to get out of.”

The waitress returns with Harry’s iced coffee, and Harry empties two little creamer cups into it before Louis says anything.

“You don’t have to be June Bug to be special and feel appreciated,” Louis says. “You just have to let people get to know you.”

“There’s nothing to know,” Harry says, frustrated. “That’s the problem.”

Louis falls quiet again, like he doesn’t know what else to say. Harry’s putting too much pressure on him, he thinks; Louis feels like he’s got to solve all of Harry’s problems, because that’s what Harry just admitted to expecting of him, but that’s not fair, even Harry knows that.

“Maybe there’s more to me than I’m able to recognize,” he says, if only to spare Louis from offering another piece of wisdom that Harry will undoubtedly just shoot out of the air with his chronic pessimism. 

“I think there is,” Louis says. 

“Sorry,” Harry says.

“For what?” Louis asks.

“For being so much work,” Harry says.

“Don’t say that,” Louis says. “You’re not a lot of work. You’re a person.”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters. _That’s the problem_.

“Well,” Louis says, “the guys and I were planning on hitting up Clement’s tonight for all the discounted hotdogs and buns and having a cookout on Zayn’s balcony, if you’re up for giving them another chance,” he says.

“They really want to hang out with me again after last night?” Harry asks.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Louis frowns.

“Because I’m a mess,” Harry says. 

“It’s really flattering that you think that everyone in that room last night isn’t a mess,” Louis smiles.

Harry smiles back at him, albeit hesitantly, and shrugs one shoulder. “But, do they actually want to hang out with me? Or are they just going to put up with me because I’m there,” he pushes.

“Harry,” Louis says, rubbing at his face a little bit. “Remember when I said you’re not actually a lot of work?”

“Yes,” Harry says.

“The only part of you that’s a lot of work is convincing you that you’re not a lot of work,” Louis says.

Harry laughs quietly, chewing on the straw in his coffee for moment. “Alright,” he says eventually, “I’ll come, but only if you’re sure the others want me there.”

“Didn’t you see how excited they were to have a reason to make fun of me?” Louis says. “Of course they want you there. It’s free material.”

Harry smiles, but it only lasts a few seconds. With all of the commotion inside of his head last night, he almost forgot about the part where Louis was named a prude by his closest friends, and Harry’s surprised that that tidbit hasn’t been weighing more heavily in his mind. “Were they serious,” he asks, “when they said that you’re not easy to get close to?”

Louis blushes, finding a sudden interest in the plate of cold home fries between them. “Uh,” he says, crushing a home fry against the plate like Harry did earlier. “I don’t know.” Harry quirks an eyebrow at him, and Louis laughs nervously, shrugging one shoulder. “I, uh, don’t really have the best history with dating,” he admits. “So I don’t really do it, like, ever,” he says.

“Oh,” Harry says.

“The guys have never really seen me with a,” he shrugs again, “romantic interest, or whatever.”

“And am I a… romantic interest?” Harry asks, finding himself blushing as well when Louis blushes even harder.

“I mean,” Louis says, “I did let you kiss me.”

“And you also kissed me last night,” Harry adds. “Twice.”

“Yeah,” Louis says to the table, like that’s all the answer Harry’s going to get.

“Well, I don’t really date ever, either, so, I guess we’ve got that going for us,” Harry says.

“Really?” Louis says, perking up a little. “What’s your tragic backstory? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” he says, smiling easily.

That’s not a can of worms that needs to be opened right now, Harry thinks, or maybe ever. He’s already upset enough about the slightest hint of a connection between Louis and his past; he doesn’t really need Louis walking around knowing his entire story before Harry’s decided he’s going to stick around.

“Oh, y’know,” he shrugs, “fell in love with a straight boy, you can imagine the rest.” It’s not exactly a lie, except for the love part, but Louis buys it, cringing over his coffee mug.

“Oh, no,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “What’s yours?”

“I dated this college guy my last two years of high school,” Louis says. “I was head over heels for him, and then it turned out he was cheating on me _literally_ the whole time,” he chuckles lowly.

“Holy shit,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “I haven’t had a serious relationship since. Not because I’m fucked up over him, really, I guess I just don’t really see the point,” he admits.

“I get it,” Harry says. “Sometimes it’s just easier to be alone.”

“Sometimes,” Louis agrees, watching Harry closely. “So, will you come to Zayn’s with me tonight?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry says, taking a long sip of his iced coffee to maintain the illusion of nonchalance. He doesn’t know why the idea of hanging out with Louis’s friends is making him so anxious, but he’s already got that unpleasant twisting feeling in his stomach, like he’s about to ride a rollercoaster, or give a presentation.

“Good,” Louis grins. “Sundays are my only days off, so I take them very seriously. I’m happy I get to spend today with you,” he says.

It catches Harry off guard, the sincerity. He doesn’t know how Louis does it, how he can be so open and honest with someone he barely knows, to tell him that he likes him, is happy to spend the day with him. Harry doesn’t know if anyone’s ever said something like that to him before, so genuinely sweet and honest, and Harry knows damn well he’s never said something like that to somebody else.

“Me too,” he admits, barely meeting Louis’s eye. “I was wondering when I’d see you again, y’know, after the first time.”

“Me too,” Louis says. “I kept meaning to walk over the bridge, see if I could run into you, but I was just so tired every night. I’ve been working extra hours at the bar this week for the holiday tourist rush, and the coffeeshop’s been short staffed since all the rich high schoolers that work there are away for the fourth, and it’s just been a nightmare,” he says.

“You work at a bar _and_ a coffeeshop?” Harry asks.

“Yup,” Louis says. “Beach Street Coffee Company, Monday through Friday, six in the morning until noon, sleep until dinner, and then Alan’s Bar and Grill on West Main Street from seven to two Wednesday through Saturday,” he says.

“Jesus,” Harry mutters. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It can be,” Louis says. “I really like both jobs, though, so I can’t really complain.”

“I don’t think I could like anything that keeps me out of bed at those hours,” Harry says. “Especially the coffeeshop. Being awake before eight in the morning should be illegal.”

“Tell me about it,” Louis says. “I’ve been picking up opening shifts this past week, which starts at _four_.”

“Straight to jail,” Harry says. “Your employer should do twenty-five to life.”

Louis laughs, ducking to hide his smile behind his mug. Harry likes it so much when Louis laughs, it’s sort of alarming, but not in a bad way. “Do you work at all?” Louis asks, quickly replacing the warmth in Harry’s chest with a sinking feeling of guilt.

“I worked as a tutor at my school, before I graduated,” he says, like the four hours a week he spent in a private room in the library, usually by himself, are in any way comparable to Louis’s twelve hour work days. “But I’ve pretty much reverted back to life as an eight-year-old since I left school. Turns out there isn’t much out there for a history major to do these days,” he shrugs.

“A history major,” Louis says. “Wow, that sounds—”

“Boring? Insufferable? Useless? Yes,” Harry says.

“I was gonna say impressive,” Louis says. “History was my worst subject. I have the memory of a ninety-year-old goldfish.”

“Sometimes I think it must be better that way,” Harry says. “Maybe I’d be happier if I could just figure out how to let some things go.”

Louis watches him curiously for a moment, but he doesn’t ask questions, bless him. “It’s freezing in here,” he says instead.

Harry becomes aware of the sweatshirt tied around his waist, but he doesn’t move to untie it. He was so adamant about giving it back to Louis last night, but now he doesn’t think he could take it off if he tried.

“We should get out of here,” Louis says, pulling some cash out of his wallet and leaving it at the end of the table.

It’s a lot warmer outside than it was inside the diner, but Harry still feels cold, somehow, once they’re out in the sunshine. Louis skips down off the sidewalk and into the sand, and Harry follows him without a thought, all the way down to the water.

There aren’t many people out on the bay, despite the beautiful weather; Harry suspects that most of the people that were here last night are either nursing their hangovers or dealing with their overtired children, and the only people dotting the sand are older couples, walking hand in hand, and the occasional well-put-together family. 

Louis kicks his slides off at the edge of the water and plants his feet just at the edge of the surf, where the water just barely washes up and over his toes. Harry hangs back a little, unwilling to take his sneakers off and get them caked full of sand again, and Louis glances at him over his shoulder.

“We used to come here all the time,” he says, “as kids. Nan has lived in this town all her life, but my mom wanted to get out as soon as she could, after she got pregnant with me. We still came back to visit, though, in the summer, and Nan would make us homemade popsicles and bring us down here to the beach. We always loved it so much, seeing Nan, coming to the bay, all that. We used to get so mad at Mom for moving away from here, taking us to the boring city to grow up. I used to fight with her a lot about it. I used to tell her I wanted to live with Nan instead of her, because Nan let us do what we want, took us to the beach whenever we asked. If I could go back, I’d never have wished for a second away from my mom,” he says. “I would have treasured every minute I got to spend with her.”

Harry doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he just nudges his shoes off with his toes, finally, and shuffles down to the water. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Louis says. “When I said that stuff, I never really meant it, y’know? I never would have actually chosen anyone over my mom, and I think she knew that, but I still wish I could take it back,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, bumping Louis’s shoulder with his own.

“If you could go back in time,” Louis says. “Would you?”

“No,” Harry says.

“Why not?”

“Why would I?” Harry says. “It’s not like anything would change. I’d just have to do it all over a second time,” he mutters.

“Say you could change things, though,” Louis says. “You could change anything at all. Would you do it?”

Harry thinks about it for a moment, staring out at the horizon. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Louis says.

“I’d make it so I was never born at all,” Harry says quietly.

“Out of bounds,” Louis says immediately. “Has to be within your lifetime. Try again.”

Harry chuckles in surprise, glancing over at Louis; Louis looks smug, like he knows he’s startled Harry out of his melodramatic stupor. Harry feels silly for even thinking such dark thoughts in such a light as Louis’s presence.

“Can I make it so that I was older than Gemma, then?” Harry asks. “Maybe I’d like to try and grow up outside of her shadow.”

“Nope,” Louis says. “Still doesn’t count. She was born before your life began, so, no dice. Stop trying to change the world around you. What could _you_ change in your life?”

Harry pauses, staring down at his feet. A tangle of sea grapes washes in with the tide and wraps loosely around his ankle, bobbing gently as it follows the retreating wave back out to sea. It’s such a simple question, but Harry doesn’t even know how to begin to approach it. He’s never really considered it like that, he guesses, and it’s jarring to have been called out like this.

“I guess I,” Harry stutters, frowning at the wet sand under his feet, “I could have done better?”

“Done better with what?” Louis asks.

“Everything,” Harry says. “I could have tried harder. I could have learned how to step out of the shadows of my own life and be, like, the main character.”

Louis’s quiet for a minute, like he’s considering. “It’s not too late, y’know.”

“What?” Harry asks.

“It’s not too late to do that,” Louis says. “You don’t have to go back in time to do that. You can start now.”

“I guess,” Harry says. 

“Maybe you already are the main character,” Louis says. “Maybe your author just hasn’t gotten to the good part yet.”

“What’re they waiting for?” Harry grumbles.

“Maybe they’re stuck,” Louis says. “Let’s give them something to write about.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t think that’s how the metaphor works,” he says. “If we’re the ones being written, then how can _we_ influence what the writer—”

“You spend so much time thinking about the metaphors, you forget to see what’s right in front of you,” Louis says. “Look! There’s an entire ocean of possibility, Harry. Are you gonna stand here on the beach forever, or are you going to start swimming?”

The water laps over Harry’s feet again and he looks out toward the horizon, the bay uncurling in his periphery and giving way to wonders Harry can hardly even imagine. He makes the decision without thinking about it at all, pulling the sweatshirt from around his waist and pushing it into Louis’s arms. He lets his feet carry him forward until he’s knee deep in the water, and Louis grabs at the back of his shirt.

“What are you doing?” he asks, alarmed.

“Swimming,” Harry says. He shakes Louis’s hand off of his shirt, takes a few more steps into the shallow waves, and then dives headlong into the surf.

The water blots out all of the noise from the bay, the seagulls and the wind and Louis’s gasp of surprise. Down here, it’s just Harry and his thoughts floating weightlessly in the salty bay. He swims as far as his lungs will allow without coming up for air, and once he finally resurfaces, his feet can’t touch the ground.

Louis is still up on the sand, but a few steps closer than before, the waves rippling around his knees. Harry grins at him and goes under again, letting the tide push him around a bit while he focuses on the muffled sound of the water in his ears.

This could be a turning point. He could swim back to shore, take Louis by the face and kiss him, vow to be more like him, only recognizing the good in the world and leaving all the negativity somewhere out here where it’ll be drowned out by the restless ocean. He could take all of his feelings and turn them into art, and maybe it won’t be good art, but Louis says he’ll never be good at anything if he doesn’t love it, and he thinks he’d like to get some experience with loving things from here on out.

The next time he resurfaces, Louis is up a little further on the sand, sitting with his legs folded in front of him. He’s got his eyes closed, head tilted back in the sunshine, content to wait, apparently, for Harry to finish his swim to self-discovery, or whatever he’s supposed to be doing.

“Hey!” Harry calls, paddling back toward the beach just far enough to be able to reach the bottom again. Louis looks up at him, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand. “You’re just gonna let me swim in all my clothes all by myself, like a crazy person?” Harry asks.

Louis laughs, but the sound of it barely carries over the sound of the water. “I thought you were taking that metaphorical plunge into the sea of opportunity,” Louis calls back.

“Yeah,” Harry scoffs, “and _I_ think too much about metaphors.”

Louis laughs again, picking himself up off the sand and trudging back down to the water. “Alright, fine,” he calls, pulling his shirt off over his head and tossing it up on the beach with their shoes.

Harry sinks into the water a little, watching Louis carefully with his nose just barely brushing the surface of the water. Louis holds his arms up like a scarecrow as he wades into the water, his face instantly pinching up.

“Fuck,” he hisses, stopping before he can get deep enough for the water to touch his bare stomach. “It’s freezing!”

Harry pushes off the bottom to swim a little closer, flicking a bit of water at Louis and grinning when he shrieks. “Dunk,” he says, shaking his hair out as if to prove that it’s wet. “It’s not so bad when you’re all in.”

Louis shakes his head, wrapping his arms around himself and backing up a few steps. Harry shrugs, pretends to lose interest, but he ducks under again before Louis can get too far, getting his hands around Louis’s ankles and pulling his feet out from under him.

Louis screams as he goes down, Harry can hear him even from under the water. Harry’s laughing before he’s even resurfaced, watching amusedly as Louis rights himself, coughing and pushing his hair out of his face.

“Fuck,” Louis says, reaching for Harry like he needs help. Harry’s laughter fades a little as he swims over to help him, but the second Louis gets his hands on him, he shoves Harry into an oncoming wave so hard that Harry gets his own mouthful of salty water.

Despite the burning in his lungs and throat and eyes, he comes up laughing once again, gravitating back to Louis the way the water swells toward the beach by the power of the moon. Louis follows the motion of the waves and stoops down as Harry approaches, catching him by the face and kissing him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is, maybe Harry wants it to be.

Harry can’t remember the last time he felt this happy, giggling into Louis’s mouth as the ocean presses against him from behind, knocking him a little closer to Louis. Louis is shivering in Harry’s arms, all bare skin and goosebumps, and Harry feels so alive, so young and in love like he’s never been before. It’s overwhelming, the feeling of being so in love with the idea of life. He wants this forever, wants to exist solely in this moment for the rest of time— maybe Louis was onto something the first night they met.

But this will go away. In about ten minutes, the joy of this moment will fade and the pressure of the future will start weighing down on him again. He wonders if the memory of this moment will be enough to sustain him until he gets another one, if he ever gets one again; it’s hard to believe that there’s any shortage of these moments with Louis around, though, and Harry’s looking forward to what else Louis might be able to prove him wrong about.

He still feels like he’s floating when Louis breaks the kiss and starts a splash war instead, and that’s probably the only reason he keeps it up, laughing like a teenager and drenching Louis with the biggest wave he can conjure with his own two hands. Louis makes the mistake of getting closer to splash Harry with more force, and Harry catches him around the waist, whirling around and dunking him into the water like a basketball. 

Everyone on the beach is watching them, the two weird kids wrestling in their clothes in the water, but Harry’s never cared less about what other people might think of him. He’s too caught up in laughing, yelling, diving out of Louis’s line of fire. He’s so alive, and it’s never felt so fucking good.

-

Louis picks him up later that afternoon in a clean change of clothes, no trace of the ocean left on him from earlier. Harry only changed his clothes and brushed the sand off Louis’s hoodie when he got home; his hair’s still caked with salt from the beach, and he’s sure he doesn’t smell nearly as good as Louis does when he leans over to hug him the second Harry gets in the car.

“Hey,” Louis says, digging something out of the cupholder between them after he releases Harry from his hold. “This is for you.”

He presses a rock into Harry’s palm, smooth and round and almost soft, so white it looks transparent.

“What’s this?” Harry asks, turning the rock over in his hand to smooth his thumb over the edge.

“I found it on the beach while you were swimming,” Louis says. “You pushed it up with your foot right before you went in. I thought you might want to, like, keep it,” he shrugs.

Harry frowns, turning the rock over again and again. “Why?”

“Why what?” Louis says. “Why’d I pick it up, or why should you keep it?”

“Both, I guess,” Harry says.

“I picked it up because it was a nice looking rock, don’t you think?” Louis says. “But then I thought it might be symbolic, y’know? Because of the conversation we were having before you went in the water, and it was sort of, like, your jumping off point, maybe, because you kicked it up out of the sand on your way into the ocean of possibility,” he explains, cheeks pinking the longer he talks.

Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment, staring at the rock in his hand and then squeezing it until his knuckles are nearly the same translucent shade of white. 

“Pretty sentimental,” Harry says.

“I always have been,” Louis says. “Sorry. You don’t have to keep it, if you think it’s weird.”

Harry frowns, glancing up at him. “It’s not weird,” he says. Louis looks unsure, insecure, and it’s not a good look on him, not one Harry cares to see again.

“Oh, good,” Louis grins. “You looked kinda— I don’t know, you looked like you thought I lost my marbles.”

“I don’t think you have any marbles to lose,” Harry teases, slipping his rock into his pocket without letting go of it. “I didn’t think you cared about what people thought?”

“I don’t,” Louis says, finally shifting the car into drive and backing out of Harry’s driveway. “But you make me nervous.”

“I do?” Harry asks.

“Sorta.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Louis chuckles, cheeks pinking again. “You’re, like— unpredictable. You’re not like anyone I know. You’re like a stormcloud, I never know if you’re going to start pouring rain, or blow away, or what. You keep me on my toes. Usually, I can tell what people are thinking about me— or at least I think I can. With you, though, I just— I never know, and I try, I do, but I can’t figure you out.”

Harry sits back against the car seat and looks out the window, keeping his eyes glued to the treeline as Louis merges onto the highway. He doesn’t feel unpredictable. He feels _very_ predictable, if anything. Nobody’s ever compared him to a stormcloud before, unless they’re complaining that he’s moody and glum. Louis thinks he’s exciting, even _cares_ what he thinks. He picked up a rock off the beach simply because he thought Harry might like to keep it, and Harry would like to keep it, he’d _love_ to keep it, he wants to put it on a chain and wear it around his neck, tucked into Louis’s hoodie, close to his heart. His jumping off point. His rock.

“You’re not like anyone I know, either,” Harry says. “I don’t know that many people, and I don’t really care to, but I like knowing you. But you don’t make me nervous,” he says.

“That so?” Louis says, smiling a little when Harry glances over at him.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “You make me calm. If I’m your stormcloud than you’re— you’re my sunshine,” he admits. “You make me feel warm.”

Louis lights up the whole car with the force of his smile, as if to prove that he is, in fact, sunshine. “I think that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Louis says, chewing on his lip with his eyes glued to the road.

“No way,” Harry says. “There’s no way that no one’s ever told you that you make them feel safe. You’re like— you’re like a storybook character, you’re _better_. Someone couldn’t write you as wonderful as you are if they tried,” he says.

“Harry, if you keep going on like that, I won’t be able to fit my head out through the car door,” Louis says. “But, actually, no. I’ve found that people don’t like so much to be open about the things that make them feel good. Everyone loves to tell you how you’ve hurt them, how you’ve inconvenienced them, how you’ve made their day worse, but no one thinks to admit what makes them happy. So, thank you, really. Thanks for saying all that. That makes me _really_ happy,” he says softly.

“You make me happy,” Harry says. It’s a little too intimate of a statement, maybe, for how well they know each other, but he means it, and he knows that Louis knows what he means.

“Good,” Louis says, reaching over to tug Harry’s hand out of his pocket to hold it in his own. Harry drops the rock just in time to lace his fingers through Louis’s, but he can feel the weight of it in his pocket, which is comforting, but not as comforting as the warmth of Louis’s palm against his. Maybe Harry should start a rock collection. Maybe he’s already got two.

Before he knows it, and way before he’s ready, Louis turns the car into the market parking lot, parking nose to nose with a little golden Subaru that looks older than Harry, all beat up with the bumper duct taped on. The other four boys tumble out as soon as Louis’s put his car in park, and Harry feels his once settled stomach unsettle again, his hand clammy when Louis lets go of it to get out of the car.

“Remember what I said, in the diner,” Louis says, peeking into the car at Harry through the open driver’s side door. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

Harry nods, scrambling to get out of the car before they others can leave him behind. It turns out he doesn’t need to rush, though; the whole group is waiting for him when he rounds the car, and Niall immediately sticks his hand out for a fist bump.

“June Bug,” he says, grinning when Harry returns his fistbump. “Good to see you, bro.”

From there on out, it’s like he’s a member of the group, like they’ve known him all their lives. They include him effortlessly in their grocery store banter and Harry almost starts to feel like he isn’t quite as out of place as he is, quickly catching on to their childish game of making innuendos out of innocent brand names through every aisle of Clement’s Market; he even makes the others _laugh_ a few times, he can hardly believe it, and Louis looks absolutely delighted at how well he’s meshing in comparison to last night.

Niall’s got some little portable grill contraption that he bought from a TV ad, or something, and they set it up on Zayn’s balcony when they get back to his apartment, loading it up with as many hotdogs as can fit which, considering the size of the grill, isn’t very many. Zayn sets up a semi-circle of beat up beach chairs on the balcony and Liam fetches the leftover drinks from the night before, and then they all settle in to watch the sunset over the treeline.

Louis moves his chair so close to Harry’s that their knees touch when they both sit down, and the others try dutifully to pretend they don’t notice. Harry, for one, is rather enjoying being the majority shareholder of Louis’s sweet attention, until Liam shifts in his periphery and brings out a small plastic baggie of something from his sweatshirt pocket.

“Almost forgot,” Liam says, pinching the bag open and pulling out a neatly rolled joint. “I brought gifts.”

Harry’s stomach sinks as the joint gets lit, already writing his speech in his head. He’s never smoked before, actually, and he doesn’t love the idea of it, especially since he’s already drinking, as well. He doesn’t even really love drinking all that much, doesn’t really like the way it makes him feel all disconnected from his body, from his head. He usually only drinks when he _wants_ to feel like that, but smoking is scarier, somehow, and he’s certainly not going to start here, with a group of people he barely knows, who all clearly have so much more experience.

He shakes his head when Niall offers the joint to him, backing away from it minutely. “Oh, no thanks,” he says quietly, waiting for the inevitable scoff, the teasing, the judgement, but it doesn’t come. Niall just shrugs and passes the joint over him to Louis, instead, who takes it hesitantly and then passes it along to Zayn.

“What the fuck?” Zayn asks, staring at the blunt in Louis’s hand like it’s going to explode. “You’re not smoking?”

“Nah, not tonight,” Louis shrugs, leaning back in his chair once Zayn has taken the blunt from him.

“Are you feeling okay?” Zayn asks. Niall reaches over Harry to slap his hand against Louis’s forehead, as if to feel for a temperature, and Louis laughs, pushing him off gently.

“I’m good, I swear,” Louis says. “Just don’t really feel like it tonight.”

Harry makes eye contact with Liam, but only because Liam was looking at him first. Liam looks down quickly, already smirking, and Niall barely stifles a laugh into his sweatshirt sleeve.

“High on something else?” Zayn asks teasingly, eyes flickering to Harry as he takes a hit and passes the blunt back to Liam.

Louis’s blushing a little when Harry glances over at him, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. Harry doesn’t really understand what’s going on here, if he’s honest; is Louis on drugs? Is that the joke? What’s he high on, and why didn’t Harry realize earlier? Harry’s about to just come out and ask but, thankfully, before he can, Louis looks up at him and blushes a little harder, and it all sinks in.

 _Him_. Louis’s high on _him_. God, he’s so stupid.

They move back inside the apartment once the food is done and the blunt is gone, because there’s really not enough room out on the balcony for all five of them and the elbows involved in hotdog eating. Louis leaves him alone for hardly a second to use the bathroom while Niall plates the food, but as soon as the door clicks shut, Zayn launches himself across the couch to sit closer to Harry.

“Okay, he’d kill us if he heard this, so let’s make this quick,” Zayn says lowly. “What’s going on here?”

“What?” Harry asks, startled.

“I’ve known Louis a long time, and I’ve never seen him like this before,” Zayn says.

“I’ve never seen him pass up a smoke,” Liam adds.

“I’ve never seen him blush,” Niall giggles.

Harry forces an awkward little laugh and looks down, mind racing. “Oh, um,” he says, willing Louis to come back from the bathroom and save him. “I don’t know.”

“Feel free not to answer,” Zayn says, “but, are you fucking him?”

“Oh my god,” Harry says. “No— what?” 

“But you want to,” Niall presses.

“Niall,” Liam hisses.

“He wants to, you know that, right?” Niall says, unbothered.

“ _Niall_ ,” Zayn chastises.

Harry doesn’t have a single available response in his mind, just a lot of TV static and a bit of adrenaline. He knows it’s just good fun, just guys trying to get some juicy gossip about their chronically single, loveable friend, but Harry feels a bit like they’re holding his head underwater, and he’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to tell them.

Luckily, Louis comes back from the bathroom before long, squeezing himself in between Harry and Zayn on the couch and hooking his arm around Harry’s shoulders. The others scramble to look busy, but Harry’s still reeling, a little bit, losing track of the conversation the others are pretending to have when Louis leans a little closer to his side.

“They didn’t bully you while I was gone, did they?” Louis asks, mostly joking, but he looks a touch concerned when Harry looks up at him, like he can feel the way Harry’s heart is racing in his chest. Harry just smiles at him, barely giving Louis time to smile back before he leans in and kisses him, ignoring the groaning of the others in the room.

Louis gasps, but he goes with it, pulling Harry a little closer and letting Harry kiss the breath right out of his lungs. Harry gets that same rush of pure feeling that he got earlier in the ocean, that feeling of being so alive, so consciously alive and so in love with the prospect of life, happy to exist in a moment for the rest of time, and when Louis pulls away, he takes the rest of whatever doubt Harry was still harboring along with him.

“What was that for?” Louis asks, eyes stuck on Harry’s lips.

“Wanted to,” Harry says. “Sorry. No I’m not.”

“You’re weird,” Louis says, his voice low enough that the others won’t hear over their frantic attempts to change the subject. “I like you.”

Harry grins at him, and Louis tucks himself into his side, the way he’s clearly been resisting all night. He fits like a glove under Harry’s arm, and he doesn’t move for the rest of the night, even after they’ve finished eating and the others have started setting up some drinking game that Harry’s never heard of. Louis just burrows a little closer and steals sips of Harry’s drink every time Harry pretends he’s not paying attention, and once the others are thoroughly distracted, he holds his drink just out of Louis’s reach and looks down at him.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry says.

“No,” Louis hums sweetly.

“Why didn’t you smoke when the other guys were smoking, earlier?” Harry asks anyway.

Louis pauses, watching Niall nearly take Liam’s eye out with a ping pong ball. “Didn’t feel like it,” Louis says, eventually, but that’s what he said earlier, too, and Harry’s not sure if he buys it.

“Was it because of me?” Harry asks. “Because I don’t mind if you do. Like, I don’t want to, myself, but I don’t want you to feel like you can’t be yourself around me just because you like me—”

“That’s not it at all,” Louis says. “I don’t make a habit of changing myself for other people, and you can consider yourself included in that. I just didn’t want to. Usually, I smoke to detach myself from the world for a little while, or whatever I’m going through. I don’t really want to be detached right now. I like it here,” he says.

“Oh,” Harry says, hiding his smile against the rim of the beer can in his hand. “Me too.”

“Good,” Louis says, stealing the beer out of Harry’s hand completely and finishing it in three gulps. “Now, get up and help me destroy Liam and Zayn in beer pong.”

Thus goes the rest of the night, laughing and playing games and freely giving all the kisses that Louis keeps stealing from him. He’s never had this much fun in a group of people before, he’s sure of it, but that might have something to do with the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his veins and the sweet, sunshiney boy who hardly ever ventures far from his side.

-

Inspiration doesn’t last terribly long in the absence of talent, Harry’s found; the proof is in the small mountain of crumpled sheets of sketch paper in his wastebasket, and the army of dulled pencils on his cluttered desk. He’s been told that art is subjective, and there is no such thing as bad art, but whoever said that has clearly never seen the horrors Harry can drum up with a pencil in his hand.

At the rate he’s going, his entire sketchbook’s going to be in the garbage before the end of the afternoon, so Harry decides to quit while he’s ahead and close the book. It’s Thursday, which means Harry’s newfound muse is working one of his very long days, and Harry probably won’t be hearing from him. It’s part of the attraction, maybe, the unreachability of his sweet prince, only to be found by accident, coincidence, or faith. Maybe fate has a hand in it, too, but Harry prefers to think of Louis as some sort of enigmatic being, only appearing when he chooses to be seen. If Harry could, he’d spend every waking moment by the warmth of Louis’s side, but there’s something inherently romantic in the uncertainty of their ever meeting again every time they part, and Harry sort of loves the longing.

The clock on his bedside table says it’s twenty minutes past six when Harry gives up on being an artist for another day, and if he remembers correctly, Louis’s shift at the bar begins at seven. He makes the decision to pay him a visit without really meaning to; as romantic as their chance encounters are, Harry thinks it might also be quite nice to surprise Louis at work, to let him know that he actually cares to see him outside of when the universe decides he should.

He leaves the house quietly, on foot despite the fact that it’s almost an hour’s walk to the town center. It’s nice to walk, and he doesn’t want to ask to use the car, anyway, because he doesn’t want to have to explain himself to his mother.

He still hasn’t told anyone about Louis, in an effort to preserve whatever remnants of that enigmatic presence that Louis still has about him. He knows it’s wrong to feel this way, but he’s still rather attracted to the idea that Louis exists somewhere outside of the bounds of Harry’s regular life, and the second he utters Louis’s name in this house, the very last shred of the illusion will be shattered. He’ll have to come to terms with it eventually, he knows, but he thinks he can hold onto this fantasy for just a little longer before he has to admit it to himself.

There are quite a lot of people out and about in the center of town, given that it’s a Thursday night in July and the beach around the corner brings in more tourists than it can handle, most summers. The bar isn’t quite packed when Harry arrives, but it’s getting there, and it’s only just past seven o’clock.

“Hi!” says the petite brunette behind the podium, flashing Harry a mouthful of hazy invisalign braces. “Party of one, or are you expecting more guests?”

“Just one,” Harry says, glancing down at the clipboard she’s scribbling something on. “Um, is Louis here?”

The girl purses her lips, consulting something on the podium. “He should be here any minute,” she decides, back to smiling in an instant. She seems so sweet, Harry can’t help but wonder what she’s like outside of work, when she isn’t being paid to act like she’s so incredibly happy to see him. “He’s always a couple of minutes late, isn’t he? Would you like to sit in his section?” the hostess asks. 

“Yes, please,” Harry says, hesitantly returning the hostess’s answering grin.

“Lovely!” she chirps, consulting her podium one last time. “Right this way.”

The dining room is a maze of tall pub-style tables, all with no more than three or four stools. The hostess deposits him at a rather small table quite near the bar rail and then flounces back to the entry, and Harry spends a few minutes observing his surroundings, feeling rather awkward. The bar isn’t overly fancy, maybe only a step up from any other sports bar, but Harry feels out of place in shorts and Louis’s hoodie. He decides to order a drink from the bartender if only to have something to do with himself; he’s not terribly familiar with Louis’s time management skills just yet, and he’s not quite sure what the hostess meant by ‘a couple of minutes’ when discussing Louis’s habit of tardiness. He pays for his vodka soda with the bartender so that he can give Louis his business when he finally arrives, and settles in to watch the door until Louis comes through it.

Harry drinks slow, but eight o’clock comes and goes before he reaches the bottom of the glass, and by then, it’s mostly water and Harry’s heart has sunk nearly all the way to the floor. Most of the tables around him have filled up, and there are different servers flitting about to each and every one of them, and still no Louis in sight. Harry’s got a bad feeling in his stomach when he gets up from the table and makes his way back up to the entry, waiting to gain the attention of the hostess.

She’s not quite as peppy as she was earlier; she looks significantly more frazzled now than she did before, and she’s got an equally-as-frazzled-looking boy with her, lip snarled a little as he makes frantic adjustments to the floor chart on the podium.

“Um, hi,” he says, smiling kindly when both young hosts look up at him. “Um, I’ve been sitting over there for a while, and— um, is Louis not coming in?”

“It would appear not, on account of he’s an hour late and never called,” the hostess says, snarky despite her ever-pleasant tone. “I’ll have someone else take care of you, I’m sorry—”

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Harry says quickly. “Does he, um, does Louis do this often? Not show up?”

“Not that I know of,” the hostess shrugs one dainty shoulder.

“Never,” the other host offers. “I’ve worked here almost as long as he has, and he’s never no-call no-showed before. He’s always, like, ten or so minutes late, but he’s never just not shown up.”

Harry’s heart sinks a little lower, meeting the growing ball of dread in the pit of his stomach. “Okay, um, thanks,” Harry says, ducking around the people coming through the door and making his way out.

“Have a nice night!” the hostess calls, but Harry’s already gone, rushing down the sidewalk back in the direction he came.

Louis takes his jobs very seriously, Harry knows that, has heard the way he talks about them. He needs them to support his family, and it seems wildly out of character for him to simply not show up to work, unless something absolutely tragic has happened. 

Harry all but runs through the backroads away from the hustle and bustle of the town center, deciding to just pass by Louis’s Nan’s house, just to see if he’s there. He doesn’t want to intrude, if something’s happened that requires Louis’s full attention, but he’ll feel better just seeing Louis’s car in the driveway, just knowing he’s safe and accounted for. 

He has no such luck, though. Harry nearly trips over in his haste to round the corner onto Louis’s street, but his Nan’s driveway is empty, Harry can tell from the corner. A flare of desperation in him wants to knock on the door, ask whoever answers if they have any idea where Louis is, what’s happened to him, but at the end of the day, he doesn’t quite feel important enough to Louis’s narrative to inquire. He supposes this is fate telling him he’s out of his bounds, and so he takes his heavy feet and turns around, dragging himself back home.

There are other places that Louis could be, Harry tells himself, other than at work or at home. He could be at Zayn’s, or with one of the others, could have simply lost track of time and forgotten about his shift. Or he could be dead, hurt in a car wreck somewhere outside of town and no one knows that he’s completely unaccounted for except for Harry, who doesn’t feel like he has the authority to call a search party because he’s not Louis’s boyfriend, after all, and he hasn’t even seen Louis in days, and he hasn’t a clue what’s going on his life. He’ll just go home, try to get some sleep and hit the coffeeshop in the morning, and if Louis isn’t there, either, _then_ he’ll let himself panic.

There’s no way home from Louis’s except over the bridge, that same old, wooden bridge that haunts so many of Harry’s bad thoughts. He hates that even now, even though so much has changed in him recently, he still gets that feeling on this stupid bridge, that numb sort of emptiness inside him that makes him feel like he wouldn’t mind, after all, if the boards gave out under him and sent him plunging into the darkness. He likes the idea, even still, and he _hates_ that he likes the idea, wonders if he’ll ever fear death the way he’s supposed to, to crave survival the way everyone else on Earth does. There are no June bugs on the bridge tonight, not a soul except for him, no one would even know… 

He lets those thoughts consume him for the rest of the journey home, as the rest of the light leaves the sky for the night. By the time he gets back to his house, he’s so distracted from his earlier anxieties that he doesn’t notice until he’s halfway up the walkway that Louis’s car is parked in his driveway, the driver door slightly ajar. 

Harry’s blood goes cold, and he runs over the last few cobblestones to the front steps, skipping the steps entirely in his haste to get inside. The storm door crashes loudly behind him as he stumbles into the house, his world shattering at the sight of Louis on his parents’ couch, his parents’ wide eyes falling on him in the doorway, all of them crying, hands shaking, terrified.

“Harry,” his mother breathes, rushing across the living room to pull Harry into a crushing hug. “Oh, thank God.”

“What?” Harry says, locking eyes with Louis over his mother’s shoulder. Louis’s standing now, watching him like he’s seeing a ghost, apology slowly seeping into his features.

“Oh, my baby,” his mother cries, digging her nails into Harry’s shoulder blades. 

“What happened?” Harry asks again, a little more frantic.

“They pulled a body out of the river,” Louis says; his voice sounds like he’s swallowed a bag of rocks, and Harry’s mind can’t quite catch up with what he’s said.

“What?” Harry asks.

“I’m sorry,” Louis breathes.

“I love you so much,” his mother whimpers, still crushing the air out of Harry’s lungs.

“I got scared,” Louis says, and he sounds it, sounds like he’s a second from breaking completely, glass under immense pressure.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” his mother says, pulling back just enough to look at Harry’s face. “Why didn’t you say anything? You can tell us anything, Harry, you know that, you _know_ that—”

Harry can’t think of a single thing to say, blinking at his mother’s agonized face.

“Is it—” she hiccups a little. “Is it us? Is it our fault? Is it my fault?”

“No,” Harry says firmly. “No, mom.”

“Are you—” she tries, “do you want to—”

“No, mom, Jesus,” Harry breathes, pulling her back into his arms. “No, no, I— no.”

His mom shudders, squeezing him once more. “He said—”

“I’m right here,” Harry says, eyes locked on Louis again. “Stop. I’m right here.”

Louis crumples, hiding his face in his hands for a moment. Harry’s never wanted to hold someone as bad as he wants to hold Louis right now, but he makes himself wait until his mother lets go first, blinking the tears out of his eyes to meet her gaze.

“We’ll be talking about this later,” she says through her teeth, as if she can sense that Harry’s got somewhere else he needs to be right now. “ _All_ ,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at Louis, “of this.”

Louis looks nervous again when Harry rounds on him, but Harry doesn’t give him time to apologize again, crossing the living in room in two strides and crushing Louis to his chest. Louis buries his face in Harry’s sweatshirt and lets out a breath so shaky Harry’s sure that Louis is about break in his arms, about to crumble like a leaf toward the end of fall. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers, biting at the front of Harry’s sweatshirt to keep himself from crying. “I’m so sorry, Harry, I got so scared, I didn’t know what else to do—”

“Shh, stop,” Harry mumbles. “It’s okay. Everything’s fine.”

“I didn’t mean to make more trouble for you,” Louis says, grabbing a fistful of the back of Harry’s hoodie and pinching at his skin a little in the process. The pain is jarring, and it brings Harry back into his head a little bit, reminds him that they’re in his living room, in front of his parents, and nothing is ever going to be the same ever again.

“Let’s go to my room,” Harry says quietly, tugging himself out of Louis’s arms and grabbing his hand instead. Louis follows after him without a second thought, clinging to his hand like a scared child, and Harry drags him all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom without turning around even once, mostly because he can’t stand the sight of Louis like this, so scared and upset that he’s shaking all over, unwilling to let go of Harry’s hand long enough for Harry to hug him again.

“You didn’t show up for work,” Harry says, tracing his fingers up and down Louis’s spine.

“I was on my way to work from dropping Zayn at the train station,” Louis says, voice muffled where he’s got his face buried in Harry’s shoulder. “And I went over the bridge and there were so many cops and an ambulance and I got so nervous, I turned around and came straight here to make sure you were— and your parents said they didn’t even realize you had left and I just— I thought—” he cuts off to hiccup a little, suppressing a sob into the fabric of Harry’s hoodie.

Harry squeezes him as tight as he can, but Louis doesn’t protest, squeezing Harry back just as hard.

“I’m so sorry,” Louis says again, body still trembling no matter how securely Harry holds him.

“For what?” Harry asks, petting his hand up and down Louis’s spine again in hopes that he’s soothing him even a little bit.

“You never told your parents about me,” Louis says. “They had no idea who I was, and I had to tell them everything— I’m so sorry, Harry, I messed up so bad—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Harry hums. “It’s alright.”

Louis holds him for just a moment longer before he pulls away, wiping at his face and finally meeting Harry’s eyes. “Wait,” he says, “how did you know I didn’t show up to work?”

“I was going to visit you. I sat in your section for an hour,” Harry admits. “I thought something awful had happened to you, I couldn’t imagine—”

“Oh my god,” Louis says, eeking out something like a laugh and draping his arms over Harry’s shoulders again. “Fuck.”

“You’ve got a very pissed off hostess,” Harry says.

“She’ll get over it, she’s a bitch,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s neck.

Harry laughs, pressing a kiss to the side of Louis’s head.

“God, I’m so happy you’re okay,” Louis says, pulling away again just to touch Harry’s face, like he’s checking to make sure he’s real.

“Me too,” Harry says. “I was freaking out. They said you’d never missed a shift before,” he says.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “I’ve also never been absolutely sure that my friend jumped off a bridge before, there’s a first time for everything,” he says.

The word _friend_ stings just a little bit, but Harry doesn’t dwell on it; there’s something else there worth dwelling on, something that makes his skin crawl a little bit.

“I told you I wouldn’t jump,” he says, backing half a step away from Louis to meet his eyes.

Louis frowns, watching him closely. “What?”

“I said I’d never jump,” Harry says. “When we talked about it— I told you I wasn’t planning to jump.”

“Yeah, you did say that,” Louis says.

“I _wouldn’t_ ,” Harry says firmly.

“Good,” Louis says, trying so hard to regain that warmth, that security that Harry’s used to, but Harry can see how shaken he still is.

“I would come to you first,” Harry says, a little less intense. Louis’s eyes light up a little, and Harry cannot look away.

“You’d come to me?” Louis asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “If I ever got the point again that I was standing over the edge, I’d— I wouldn’t— I’d come to you,” he says.

Louis softens considerably, like he’s finally reassured that Harry isn’t gone, that he’s right here, and that he would give Louis the chance to talk him off the ledge before he ever jumped. “You can always come to me,” he says, like Harry doesn’t know.

“I know,” Harry says. Louis smiles, hanging his head for a moment like he’s exhausted, like the stress of the evening has completely worn him out. “You should probably go to work,” Harry says, quietly, doesn’t really mean it.

“Fuck work,” Louis says, grabbing Harry’s hand and dragging him to his bed. It’s big enough for the both of them to lie down, but Louis doesn’t seem keen on letting a molecule of air between them, tugging Harry down on top of him and kissing him like he can’t help himself. Harry goes willingly, cages Louis in his arms and kisses him back hard enough to prove once and for all that he’s here, he’s alive, he’s warm and full of life and sensation and emotion, and Louis appears to receive the message loud and clear.

Louis seems content to just stay like this forever, slipping his hands up the back of Harry’s hoodie to touch his skin, but Harry’s mind starts racing before long, dragging him all the way back to the bridge.

Who the fuck did they pull out of the river? It wasn’t Harry, they’ve proven that much, but it was _somebody_. It was somebody else’s son, somebody else’s love interest, somebody else’s _somebody_ who got dragged out of the river, and Harry can’t stop thinking about it. Not to mention, his own parents are probably still reeling; some perfect stranger had to come into their home and tell them that their son was suicidal, that he might be dead, and he can’t imagine how much they’re hurting, even though he’s not actually gone.

He wants to not care, he wants to push it all out of his mind and spend the rest of the night tangled up in Louis like this but he _does_ , he cares so deeply, and he can’t, he can’t ignore it, can’t think about anything except— 

“Hey,” Louis says, breaking away from the kiss to brush Harry’s tear off his own face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Who was it?” Harry asks, voice breaking in the middle. 

Louis hesitates. “What?”

“Who did they pull out of the river?” Harry asks.

“I don’t know,” Louis says, face pinching up in confusion.

Harry sits up, climbing off of Louis and putting his head in his hands for a moment. Louis sits up quietly, but he keeps his hands to himself, like he doesn’t know what’s going on inside Harry’s head. That makes two of them, Harry thinks.

“Did he jump?” Harry asks, prying his eyes open to look at Louis again.

Louis doesn’t answer for a second or two, like he has no idea what to say. “I don’t know,” he says again, because that’s the truth, but it’s not what Harry wants to hear.

“But—” he huffs, digging his fingernails into his own thighs. “Did he want to die? Or was it an accident?”

“Harry,” Louis says lowly.

“When I was walking home, there was no one on the bridge at all,” Harry says, rushed, frantic. “It was like nothing even happened.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, but Harry can tell by the look on his face that he’s not following his line of thought, and nausea swells in Harry’s stomach.

“He fucking _died_ , and an hour later everything’s just back to normal?” Harry says. “That’s— that’s—”

“That’s life,” Louis says softly, shrugging one shoulder. “The world still turns.”

“There were no bugs,” Harry says, eyes filling with tears once more.

“What?” Louis asks.

“I looked,” Harry says through his teeth. “There were no June bugs on the bridge, Louis, not one.”

Louis looks nervous, worried, but mostly scared, watching him closely like he’s waiting to see the moment that all of the strings in Harry’s head finally snap under all the tension.

Harry crumbles a little, crying into his hands. “Why didn’t anyone stop him?” he whimpers.

Louis breathes out harshly, like he’s trying not to cry, too, but he still doesn’t reach out. “I don’t know,” he says. He sounds so scared, and it only makes Harry cry a little harder.

“Why the fuck didn’t anyone stop him,” Harry sobs, doubling over to press his face into his knees. “Why— why wasn’t anyone there to stop him?”

Louis touches him, finally, hugs him sideways and presses his face into Harry’s neck. Harry sobs again, rigid in Louis’s arms, until Louis presses a gentle kiss to the hinge of Harry’s jaw and then moves closer to his ear. “Harry,” he breathes, but Harry only cries harder, cringing away from him. “June Bug,” Louis says, dragging him back until Harry gives, slumping into Louis’s lap.

“Why did you stop me, but no one stopped him?” he asks, mashing his face into Louis’s knee. He holds his breath to calm himself down a little and Louis squeezes him so tight, petting at his hair. 

“I don’t know, babe,” he admits, like he’s as disappointed as Harry is that he doesn’t have the answers.

Harry turns to bury himself in Louis, dragging him down to his level on the mattress and letting Louis hold him as close as he wants, rubbing his back the way Harry was doing earlier. Harry feels pathetic, feels like a lost cause, but Louis keeps kissing every part of Harry’s face that he can reach, like he’s anything but.

“I’m so happy it wasn’t you,” he says after a while, so quietly Harry almost misses it. Harry doesn’t say anything, content to pretend that he did miss it, but Louis sniffles and keeps talking. “I feel horrible for that other guy, but I— I am so happy I stopped _you_ ,” he says.

Harry squishes closer, until he’s got his nose pressed so close to Louis’s pulse point that he can barely breathe. A little while goes by, and eventually the chirping of the crickets outside becomes louder than Harry’s own heart beating in his ears, and Louis doesn’t let go of him for a second. Harry would be happy to stay like this until he wastes away to nothing, but he can’t have that, not with the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, eventually, and then a quiet knock on the door.

Louis jumps, like he’s not used to being so constantly aware of the tiny noises in this house, tracking the other people under this roof the way a cat tracks mice through the wall. Harry squeezes him tighter, but Louis sighs, pushing away an inch.

“You should talk to your mom,” he whispers, brushing his hand through Harry’s hair.

“Harry?” his mother calls softly through the door, like she can hear them moving about in here.

Louis sits up, and Harry chases him before he can get far, kissing his lips once more, as gently as he can manage. “Thank you,” he whispers, so quiet his mother couldn’t hear it with a cup against the door, “for caring about me.” Louis smiles at him, touching his cheek gently. “Can I see you tomorrow?” Harry asks, before Louis can move away from him.

“I’m at the coffeeshop all morning, and the bar all night,” Louis says. “I’d be happy to see you during either of those shifts, or both, or in between.”

“Okay,” Harry says, holding Louis’s hand like he’s too afraid to let go. “I’ll find you.”

“Okay,” Louis says. He kisses Harry one more time before he pulls away completely, climbing off the bed and letting Harry walk him to the door.

His mother looks like a wreck when he opens the door, but she barely even seems to notice that Harry is there at all. She goes for Louis, instead, when Louis attempts to slip silently past her, grabbing him by the bicep and turning him around quite forcefully just to hug him. Louis goes easily, like he’s known Harry’s mother his whole life, and Harry supposes, after the evening they’ve all had, he probably feels like he has.

Louis gives Harry one last watery smile before he disappears down the hallway, and then Harry’s left to deal with his mother’s puffy eyes and shaky breaths all on his own.

She comes into the room slowly, closes the door behind herself and leans against it like she’s afraid to invade Harry’s space, afraid to get too close lest he lash out like some hurt, cornered animal. Harry’s always been very private about his bedroom, has always taken his own space very seriously, but he doubts he’ll ever know the meaning of the word privacy ever again after tonight.

“He’s very sweet,” Harry’s mom says, instead of the millions of other things that are probably bumbling about inside her head at the moment.

“Yeah,” Harry says, sitting down on the corner of his bed and fixing his eyes on the carpet.

“He— um,” his mom hesitates, “he told me some things.”

Harry closes his eyes, can’t even face the carpet with all of the guilt glazing over his eyes.

“Harry,” his mom says quietly.

“What did he tell you?” Harry asks, not daring to look up.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on,” his mom says, “and we’ll see if the stories line up.”

Harry hangs his head, intertwining his hands in his lap and squeezing his own knuckles so hard it hurts. “I met him a few weeks ago while I was walking around,” Harry says. “He asked me for a lighter.” His mom doesn’t say anything just yet, so Harry shrugs one shoulder and keeps his head as low as he can. “We started talking, and— I don’t know.”

“You like him,” his mom says knowingly.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes.

“That’s okay,” she says, giving Harry a careful smile when he looks up at her. “But I wish you liked yourself, too, Harry.”

Harry crumples, but his mom holds her ground, like she isn’t quite ready to give up and make it all better with a hug. 

“Harry,” she says, and Harry looks up, the vision of her swimming in his sight. “You are so loved,” she says.

Harry nods, dropping his head again and trying to hold in the sob that’s threatening to bubble out. He hates this, hates not being able to vocalize what he’s feeling, why he’s feeling it, and how desperately he wants to be able to stop.

“Is there…” his mom starts hesitantly. “Is there something I could do?” she asks. “Is there something I— could have done?”

“No,” Harry says. “No, it’s not you.”

“Then, what?” she pushes. “Did something happen?”

Harry hesitates, shaking his head belatedly.

“Did something… not happen?” his mom asks.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. “Maybe.”

“Help me out here, Harry,” his mom says, her voice soft, hurt. “Help me help you.”

“Maybe it’s just— a little bit of everything,” Harry says. “Sometimes it just— I don’t know, it feels like I don’t— like I can’t—”

His mother gives in at the same time he does, finally crossing the room to settle down beside him on the edge of his mattress. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she says eventually. Harry frowns, looking up at her quickly, but she’s already watching him. “I knew you were sad. You have been, you know, for years. But I didn’t know you were,” she gestures vaguely with her hand, “at that point.”

“I wasn’t, really,” Harry says, looking down again to talk to his knees. “I don’t think I really was. I just wasn’t… in my head, I guess,” he stutters.

“You’ve seemed better lately,” his mom tries. “You’ve been going out more.”

“Yeah,” Harry says.

“That’s because of Louis?” she asks.

Harry hesitates again, but he nods. “Yeah,” he says again.

His mother shifts to hug him sideways, but Harry can’t move to hug her back; he feels like his body is full of whatever’s inside telephone wires, frantic and rushing and deadly.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” his mom asks, stroking her hand through Harry’s hair.

“Because,” Harry says, making himself a little smaller under her affection.

“Because…” she presses.

“Because he was mine,” Harry admits, “and mine alone. And I’ve never—”

“What?” his mom breathes.

“I’ve never had anything that’s all mine,” Harry says. His mother doesn’t say anything, just hums quietly, and Harry closes his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Harry says, eventually. “About— any of it.”

“It’s okay, Harry,” his mom assures. “It’s all perfectly alright.” Is it?

“Do they know who the guy in the river was?” Harry asks. His mother flinches a bit against his side, but she doesn’t back away.

“It only just hit the news an hour ago,” she says. “They won’t release his name until his family’s been notified,” she says. She hesitates a little before she speaks again, shifting to meet Harry’s eyes. “Why? Do you think you know him?”

“No,” Harry says easily. “I just— I want to know why no one stopped him.” His mom flinches again, her eyes flashing with something like fear, but it’s not quite fear, more like dread, apprehension. “I always thought that if I got to that point, like, I’d hate to be stopped, y’know? If I wanted to end it, I’d hate to be interrupted, but— I can’t stop thinking about why no one stopped that guy. How long did he wait there for someone to stop him, and no one did?”

His mom hugs him again, harder this time, digging her face into his shoulder and sniffling like she’s trying to hide it. “You’re such a beautiful person, Harry,” she says, the tightness of her voice forcing a lump into the back of Harry’s throat, too. “I love you so much,” she whispers.

“I love you too, mom,” Harry says, resting his head atop hers until she finally pulls away.

“Get some sleep, darling,” she says, wiping at her face as she gets up off the bed. “We can talk in the morning, if you want to.” She leaves him with a kiss to his head, closing the door silently on her way out. Harry tracks her all the way down the hall and into her own bedroom, and once he’s sure that she’s not coming back, he drags himself up to his pillow, lying down to stare at the ceiling for a little while.

A little while turns into much longer than a little while, but Harry can’t stop thinking the evening through over and over again in his mind. He feels like he got off quite easy for all of the stress and trouble he caused, but he also feels like it’s rather fucked up that he feels that way; he didn’t do anything wrong, after all, in trying to visit Louis at work while some stranger was being pulled out of the river, and maybe it says a little more about his mental state than he’d like to admit that he feels as though he should be in some kind of trouble for having wanted to kill himself in the first place.

-

He gives up on sleeping around eight in the morning, when the sun has pushed past the treeline behind his house and his room is whitewashed with the glow of the overcast sky. He’s still in Louis’s hoodie from last night, but he swaps for a different pair of shorts just for the illusion of having changed, and he slips his sketchbook into his old backpack and slings it over his shoulder before he sneaks downstairs.

In the light of day, he’s rather embarrassed about everything that happened last night. He has been doing a lot better recently, as his mother pointed out last night, and he definitely thinks that she could have gone her whole life just fine without knowing that her only son was suicidal at the end of June. She’ll move on from it, he knows, but he thinks they’ll never look at each other quite the same, him and his mother, now that the knowledge of this hangs between them.

The plan is to leave the house undetected, his preferred method of leaving the house, but his mother is in the kitchen when he sneaks by, and somehow, she hears him over the hissing of the Keurig. “Oh,” she says, startling Harry nearly out of his skin. “Well, you’re up early.”

Harry tries to play it off, like he wasn’t about to spend thirty seconds turning the door knob on the front door as to not make a sound, stuffing his hands in his sweatshirt pockets and giving his mom a tight smile.

“Are you— feeling okay?” his mom asks.

“I’m not gonna go kill myself,” Harry says, before he can think better of it.

His mother flinches like he slapped her, and the Keurig whines as it starts spitting coffee into her mug. “I didn’t say—”

“I know, sorry,” Harry says. “Just— don’t worry about it, okay?”

“I am always going to worry, Harry, you’re my baby,” his mom says gently.

“I’m a grown ass man,” Harry says.

“Language,” his mother tuts weakly, as if the irony of it dawns on her as she’s saying it.

“I’m twenty fucking two,” Harry says lowly.

“I know,” his mom says.

“Please don’t baby me, mom, it—” he weighs his words very carefully, doesn’t want to hurt her any more than he probably already has. “It doesn’t make it any easier,” he says, eyes low.

“Okay, alright,” his mom surrenders, turning away to dress her coffee with milk and sugar. Harry turns to leave while she’s distracted, but she catches him once more before he goes, leaning back against the counter as Harry pulls open the front door. “Harry?” Harry glances back at her, and she gives him her warm, signature smile. “I love you.”

Harry pauses, and then lets himself smile back, just a bit. “Love you.”

“Do you want to use the car?” his mom asks. “I think it’s gonna rain today.”

“No, I’ll just have Louis drive me home if it rains,” he shrugs, glancing out at the sky through the open door. It is a bit overcast, but rain looks ages away, and there’s a chance the sun might break through the clouds before the rain ever gets a chance.

“You’re going to see him?” she asks, like the idea of it is as comforting to her as it is to Harry.

Harry blushes, glancing down at his shoes. “Um, yeah.”

“Okay,” his mom smirks, taking a careful sip of her coffee.

“C’mon,” Harry sighs.

“I didn’t say anything!” his mom says, eyes sparkling. “Go on, then. Have fun. I’ll see you later?”

“See you,” Harry says, slipping out the door before she can embarrass him any more. Maybe he was wrong about not being able to meet his mother’s eye anymore; if anything, he feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, like he can say what he really means around her, and she’s learning to stop treating him like a child. Maybe this is what they’ve been needing, and yes, it probably could have happened a million ways other than how it did, but Harry’s rather relieved to know that his mother really, actually does love him, and not just because she has to.

The air is heavy with the humidity of an impending storm, despite how bright the sky seems. It’s not hot out yet, given it’s barely eight in the morning, and Harry’s quite comfortable in Louis’s hoodie, burying his hands in the pocket and finding the little round rock that Louis gave him the other day. He holds the rock in his fist the entire walk to the town center, and keeps holding onto it while he steps into the coffeeshop and joins the small line formed at the counter, turning it over and over in his hand as he spots Louis in his own little world, up on his toes to reach for a cup way up high on a shelf.

Louis doesn’t see him, is far too distracted with his work to notice him, and Harry tries his very best not to stare. He familiarizes himself with the menu before he steps up to order, deciding that he’ll step out of his comfort zone for today, and today only.

“Good morning,” says the girl behind the register. She’s probably barely sixteen, face dotted with pimples, and she’s not quite as bubbly as the hostess from last night. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have an iced latte, please,” Harry says, pulling his wallet out while the girl jabs his order into her computer like she’s mad at it.

“Can I have your name?” she asks.

“June Bug,” Harry says, without a moment’s hesitation. The girl gives him a funny look, but she doesn’t say anything, tapping the name into her computer with as much enthusiasm as ever.

“You can pick it up right over there,” she says, vaguely gesturing to Harry’s left. “Next?”

Harry shuffles to the other end of the counter; he’s got a better view of Louis working from over here, but Louis still doesn’t notice him, mixing drinks like it’s second nature and passing them happily along to their owners. Harry can see the exact moment the name on his cup registers in Louis’s mind, just as he’s about to call it out, his entire being brightening instantly. He looks up quickly, and Harry smiles, shuffling forward to collect his drink.

“Hi,” Louis grins, passing him the cup proudly. “Jeez, I never thought you’d come so early. I’m so happy to see you,” he says.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Harry says, shrugging one shoulder.

“Hey, go sit down,” Louis says, nodding toward the few open tables scattered about the shop. “I’m going to take my fifteen in a little while, and I’ll come chat.”

Harry takes his drink to a table tucked away in the corner, near the bathrooms. He’s lived in this town his entire life, but somehow he’s never been here before, has never really even noticed it. It seems like the type of place that the girls from his high school would flock to, but most of them have probably flittered away from here the way Harry wishes so badly that he could do, never to be seen again. He’s never really had any reason to stay, aside from a lack of places to go, but he thinks he likes it here, in this coffeeshop, and it makes him wonder what else he’s been missing out on in his utter indifference to life.

He picks up his backpack from where he dropped it on the floor beside the table, pulling out his sketchbook and an old mechanical pencil from the bottom of the bag. His drink is good, but it’s a little too strong for his liking, so he mostly just watches the ice melt through the clear plastic cup as he tries to think of something to draw.

He starts out with the basic things he used to see the art kids drawing on their desks and notebooks in high school; he draws a rather bloodshot eye at the top of the page, and then attempts to draw a hand protruding from the bottom right corner, staring at his own hand and trying to replicate it. It looks like shit, frankly, when he’s finished it, but before he can tear the page out and crumple it up, Louis plops down in the chair across from him, smiling ear to ear.

“How’s the coffee?” he asks, eyeing the full cup in front of Harry.

“It’s good,” Harry says, taking a long sip as if to prove it.

“I’d have made it with more love if I’d known it was for you,” Louis says.

“I think it has the perfect amount of love, actually,” Harry says. “Could use a little more sugar, though.”

“Here’s some sugar,” Louis says mischievously, leaning across the table quickly to peck a kiss to Harry’s lips.

Harry blushes, startled, and directs his grin toward the table. “Much better,” he says.

“Oh!” Louis says, moving his chair a bit to get closer to Harry. “You’re drawing!”

“If you could call it that,” Harry says, wincing when Louis pulls the sketchbook closer to examine Harry’s work.

Louis doesn’t say anything for a moment, pursing his lips. “Hm,” he hums, staring intently at the page.

“Tell me how you really feel,” Harry sighs, snatching the book back. “It’s garbage, I know.”

“Well, it’s better than I could do,” Louis says. 

“Doubtful,” Harry says.

“Here’s the only thing I can draw,” Louis says, taking the pencil from Harry’s hand and scribbling something in the corner closest to him. 

“A dick,” Harry says thoughtfully, nodding when Louis drops the pencil and giggles. “Yeah, still somehow better than my art.”

“Have you tried any other mediums?” Louis asks. “Like, painting, or sculpting, or photography?”

“Not really,” Harry says, closing his sketchbook so he won’t have to look at it anymore.

“Maybe you should shop around,” Louis shrugs. “See what you’re good at.”

Harry watches him for a moment, weighing his options in his head. Louis is so pretty, even with his disheveled, cafe-rush hair and his wrinkled polo, eyes a little puffy from exhaustion, and maybe a little from all the crying yesterday, as well. “Photography might be cool,” Harry decides.

“Yeah!” Louis agrees. “Oh, I think I have an old camera, if you need one,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah, come back to my Nan’s after my shift and I’ll grab it for you,” Louis says.

“Thanks, man,” Harry grins.

Louis giggles, stealing a sip of Harry’s latte. “‘Man,’” he muses. “What are we, homies?”

“Well,” Harry scoffs, “last night you called me your _friend_ , so.”

Louis flushes a little. “Did I say that?” 

“You did,” Harry says gravely. 

“Well, I— don’t know exactly what to call you,” Louis admits. Harry hums, and Louis looks up at him, calculating. “Are we, like… dating?” he asks.

“Have we ever been on a date?” Harry counters.

“I guess not,” Louis says.

“Well, then, I guess not, huh?”

Louis chuckles, glaring playfully at Harry. “Alright then, _man_ , how about we take this thing on the road?”

“You want to date me?” Harry asks.

“Oh, have I not made that clear enough yet?” Louis laughs.

“Well, yeah, but,” Harry shrugs, “no ones ever, like, wanted to date me before,” he says quietly.

“Impossible,” Louis says. “I cannot be the first one to want you.”

“Well, those are different things,” Harry mutters.

Louis pauses, watching him closely. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” Harry says. “It’s— nothing.”

Louis watches him for a moment longer, and then he’s back to smiling easily, like nothing happened at all. “Well, I will gladly take advantage of the world’s stupidity in not wanting you,” he decides. “So, what do you say? Will you go out with me?”

“Okay,” Harry says without a moment’s hesitation. Louis beams at him, so Harry smiles back, picking up his drink just to chew on the straw. “Hey, Lou?” he says.

“Yes, bug?” Louis hums.

Harry blinks, warmth spreading in his chest. “Bug?”

“June Bug is kind of a mouthful, isn’t it?” Louis says.

“Fair enough,” Harry shrugs.

“What were you gonna say?” Louis asks.

“Just— thank you,” Harry says, more to the table than to Louis.

“For what?” Louis frowns.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “For just existing, I guess.”

Louis smiles so brightly Harry can see it without even looking up at him. “Well, thank you too, then, I guess,” he says.

Harry looks up at him, and for a moment, he thinks that Louis is going to climb over the table to kiss him again, but Louis just smiles at him, instead, holding his own hands in his lap and looking up at the clock over the door. 

“I should get back to work,” he sighs, dragging himself out of his chair. He hesitates, and then leans in to kiss Harry’s cheek before he goes, and somehow, it feels much more intimate than any of the other kisses they’ve shared, so much so that Harry looks down immediately and Louis all but runs to get back to work, only meeting Harry’s eyes again with a gentle smile once he’s safely behind the counter.

Harry moves his chair a bit to get a better view of Louis, cracking his sketchbook open and flipping to a blank page for one last attempt at drawing. He makes a few valiant attempts at drawing Louis, but they all come out horribly, unsurprisingly, though Harry thinks he can blame that on the fact that Louis’s beauty is simply impossible to capture on paper.

Around noon, someone else comes in to take over for Louis. Louis’s in such a rush to get back to Harry’s table that he forgets to clock out, and when he finally plops down in the chair across from Harry again, it’s with a bashful smile on his face and a pretty flush to his cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, leaning eagerly across the table. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Harry asks.

“We’re gonna go get my camera and then we’re gonna go adventuring for photos,” Louis says, like Harry should know.

Harry smiles, flipping his sketchbook closed. “I thought you went home to sleep between jobs?” he says.

“Who needs sleep,” Louis shrugs, pushing out of his chair and reaching for Harry’s hand. “Coming?”

Louis talks the entire ride back to his Nan’s house, but Harry doesn’t mind; he’s more focused on the way Louis doesn’t let go of his hand for even a second the whole time, tracing his thumb in gentle circles over the back of Harry’s hand. The radio is playing softly, but Louis doesn’t leave an inch of space for the sound of it to fill, keeping Harry entertained and enamoured until they pull into the driveway. 

Louis’s Nan is the only one home when they arrive, and Louis still doesn’t drop Harry’s hand, even when she looks up at them from where she’s sitting like some kind of nymph in her front garden, weeding. Her gaze softens immediately upon seeing Louis, and turns curious as her eyes fall on Harry.

“Hi, Nan,” Louis says cheerfully, dragging Harry right over to her, close enough to lean down and peck her cheek hello. 

“Hi, dear,” his Nan says sweetly, brushing her hands on her shorts. “Who’s this?”

“This is Harry,” Louis says, presenting their interlocked hands. “We’re going on a date!”

“Oh!” his Nan says, startled, but delighted. “Right now?”

“Um,” Louis says, glancing over at Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry says, briefly meeting Louis’s eye and then giving his Nan the biggest smile he can muster.

“How lovely!” Louis’s Nan says, giving the both of them one more pleasant smile and returning to her garden. “Have fun, boys!”

The house is nicer than Harry remembers it when Louis pulls him inside; he remembers it feeling cluttered, homey, cozy, but he wasn’t in the best of mental states just then, so he never really got the chance to take it in. It’s beautiful, though, definitely the living room of a loving and nurturing grandmother that he’s being tugged through. The staircase is lined with school photos and family portraits, but they don’t go up the stairs, ducking around the corner, instead.

“This is my room,” Louis says, leading Harry through a door under the stairs. It looks more like a coat closet than a bedroom, complete with a slanted ceiling and one small, circular window that faces the backyard, but it fits a twin sized bed and a dark, antique armoire, all shoved against the tallest wall at the back of the room. It’s a mess, but Louis wasn’t expecting company, and Harry can’t really find it in himself to care, anyway. “Make yourself comfortable,” Louis says, nodding toward the bed. “It’s going to take me ten years to find this camera, I’m sure.”

Harry nudges his shoes off in the hallway and then climbs up on Louis’s bed, sights set on the extraordinarily fluffy blanket that’s rumpled up where the comforter is askew. He pulls the blanket over himself before anything else, settling back against Louis’s pillow to watch him rifle through the armoire. The room smells faintly of the same scent from Louis’s sweatshirt, the scent that Harry’s come to love so much; it smells a little bit of cigarettes, a little of cologne, and mostly of that soft, clean smell that Louis carries on his skin, the one Harry would purchase in bulk if it were bottled.

The room itself is cute, decorated very warmly, with the same degree of clutter as the living room. It’s all very _Louis_ , Harry thinks, all the concert ticket stubs and polaroids tacked up on the walls, the strip of fairy lights hung against the ceiling line, the little rainbow stickers stuck on the window trim. It’s quite hot in here, especially under the blanket and hoodie on top of Harry, but he’s remarkably at ease, perfectly comfortable tucked up in Louis’s bed.

Louis hums to himself while he searches through his things for the camera, and Harry’s helpless to his meandering little tune, letting his head loll back against the pillow for just a moment. He didn’t sleep a wink last night, and that’s the only excuse he’ll be able to claim as he drifts to sleep right there in Louis’s bed, like he belongs here, like Louis isn’t searching through his things to find a camera so they can go run around town even more. 

“Aha!” Louis shouts triumphantly, after who knows how long, startling Harry right out of his little dreamscape. Louis looks up, apparently spooked by the jolt of Harry’s heart, but then he smiles so gently Harry just wants to melt into him and drift off again. “Were you sleeping?” Louis asks.

“No,” Harry says, but the gravel in his voice betrays him.

“That’s so cute,” Louis says. “You fell asleep in my bed.”

“I like this blanket,” Harry says, turning over onto his side and taking the blanket with him. “I’m stealing this.”

“My hoodie, my blanket, anything else?” Louis teases, picking himself up off the floor and plopping down on the bed.

“Your heart,” Harry says, wrapping his arms around Louis’s middle and pulling him a little closer. He spots the camera in Louis’s hands, finally, once Louis submits and leans back against him, and somehow, that piques his interest over the warm armful of Louis he’s got. “That looks fancy,” he says, eyes stuck on the camera as Louis shifts around to settle next to him.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just old,” Louis shrugs, finding the button to switch it on. It makes a tiny clicking sound as the lens opens, and Louis smiles. “It was my Gramp’s.”

“Are you sure it’s okay if I use it?” Harry asks, even as Louis hands it over to him.

“Maybe not forever,” Louis says, “but you can definitely use it for practice, or whatever.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, clicking through all of the buttons on the camera just to see what they do.

Louis shifts around a little more as Harry distracts himself with the camera, tucking himself into Harry’s side with his head resting on his chest. Harry finds the button to review the old photos saved to the camera by accident, and Louis doesn’t seem to be paying any attention, so he starts flicking through them quietly.

There are a lot of random photos, blurry shots of shoes and treetops, a rather unartistic shot of Louis’s Nan about to tuck into a plate of food, her hair much longer and darker than it is now. There are photos of the house, the one they’re in now, back in its prime, when the clutter was deliberate and artful, photos of the garden outside when it looked a little more vibrant than it does today. He finds pictures from places around town, the bay, the old grocery store off the highway before it changed hands a few years ago. There’s a rather beautiful shot of the old wooden bridge, shot from underneath it, like Louis’s Gramp was down on the riverbank, looking up. Harry lingers on that photo for a minute or two, amazed by the sharp contrast of the bridge against the bright blue sky, the way it looks from the ground, like he’s never seen it.

After that comes the baby photos, the pictures of Louis as a toddler, holding his baby sister, playing in the garden, napping on the beach. Harry coos, and he finally draws Louis’s attention back to the camera, flipping through the photos slowly so that Louis can look at them, too.

“Look at you,” Harry says, giggling at a photo of Louis covered head to toe in what appears to be chocolate frosting, grining at the camera in front of a glittering Christmas tree. “You’re so fucking _cute_.”

“I was a monster,” Louis hums. “God, I didn’t realize there were still photos on that thing.”

“You’re naked,” Harry giggles, upon finding a photo of Louis, probably four years old, in all his glory in the bathtub.

“Oh my god,” Louis laughs, pressing his face into Harry’s chest without taking his eyes off the camera.

The next photo hits a little harder; it’s the first day of school, probably, and Louis’s got a fresh bowl cut, a crisp pair of denim overalls and a bright red shirt. He’s in front of a house Harry doesn’t recognize, probably the house he grew up in, and his mother is there, too, squatting in the driveway for Louis to kiss her cheek as the school bus arrives, blurred slightly in the left of the frame. Harry pauses, zooming in a little on Louis and his mom, smiling at the grins on both of their faces. “This one is so sweet,” he says, glancing down to see Louis’s reaction.

Louis’s eyes are full of tears, but he’s trying to hide it, staring blankly at the camera. He’s got one hand fisted in his fluffy blanket and he’s holding his breath, Harry can feel it, and it makes his heart sink.

“Oh,” Harry says, putting the camera down quickly. “Lou—”

Louis turns to press his face into Harry’s shoulder, letting out one shaky breath and drawing in another to hold onto.

“I’m sorry,” Harry breathes, getting his arms around Louis’s shoulders to hug him.

“No,” Louis says quickly, looking up again to blink the tears out of his eyes. “It’s just hard to look at photos, sometimes,” he admits, voice soft.

“I get it,” Harry says.

“I really didn’t know there were still pictures on that,” Louis says, reaching for the camera to rifle through the next couple of photos quickly. “Jesus, he took pictures of everything,” he mutters.

Harry doesn’t spare the camera another glance, eyes stuck on Louis. “You know,” he says, stroking one hand over Louis’s shoulder and down his arm. “I bet my parents have a camera I can borrow.”

Louis sniffles a little, switching the camera off and turning his face into Harry’s shoulder again. Harry squeezes him tighter, and Louis chuckles, discreetly wiping his eye on Harry’s sweatshirt. “Sorry,” he says, like getting choked up over old photos isn’t barely a fraction of what Harry’s put him through.

“Don’t be,” Harry says, pressing a long kiss to the side of Louis’s head. “Although, I am going to want to see the rest of your baby photos, at some point.”

Louis laughs, a real laugh this time, and pulls the fluffy blanket up a little higher. Harry’s never been so comfortable in his life, wants to spend the rest of time with Louis in his arms like this, one dainty hand curled into a loose fist over Harry’s chest, burning like fire in all of the places they’re touching. 

It doesn’t take either of them very long to drift off like that, losing track of time and space, impromptu afternoon date be damned. They have forever, after all, for a real date, and then some. For the first time in his life, Harry is entirely content with where he’s found himself, isn’t rushing in the slightest to get on with it, to get to the next bit, to hurry things along. He likes this, just this, and if life never amounts to anything more than napping with Louis under his very fluffy blanket, then, so be it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. **please read the tags.** and please please please let me know if there's something i missed or something i should add.
> 
> this chapter is very very heavy. it includes moderately detailed description of sexual assault and a suicide attempt, as well as a LOT of contemplation of suicide and death/drowning. please be safe, and don't read this if you don't feel comfortable doing so. i will not be offended if you bow out of this fic here. be kind to yourself, and use your best judgement.
> 
> this chapter also ends of kind of a cliffhanger?? it's not the worst in the world but just know that i am already working on chapter four, so this is not the end. 
> 
> as always, thank you for reading if you choose to do so, and i hope that maybe reading these words will be therapeutic to you in the same way that writing them has been for me.

The ground is still wet from the rain last night, but the sky is clearing up, though the air is still heavy. The humidity is making Harry’s hair fluffier than any single cloud in the sky, and it keeps casting odd shadows on the cluster of toadstools he’s trying to photograph, making it impossible to get both good lighting and a good angle.

“Here,” Louis says, holding out the book he’s been reading while they’ve been out here in the woods for the morning. This is yet another spot in Harry’s own hometown that he’s never even heard of before, but Louis knows it well, somehow; it’s just an overgrown hiking trail through the thick woods near the river, but it’s sort of magical, the way the light filters through the trees, the way everything around them is lush and green and shining with leftover rain. Louis’s found a low tree branch, and he’s perched on it, his back against the tree trunk with a cigarette in the hand that’s not flopping a novel vaguely in Harry’s direction.

“Bit busy,” Harry mutters, nearly pulling a muscle in his back trying to twist around to get his stupid shadow out of his shot.

“Use this, I mean,” Louis says, shaking the book around a bit more. “Like a— what’s it called? It’ll reflect the light,” he says.

Harry takes the book from him warily, crouching down beside the toadstools again and trying to figure out how to use the book to reflect the light where he needs it. Louis offers no more advice, sucking lazily on his cigarette while Harry fumbles with both the book and his dad’s old camera. 

It takes him a few minutes to figure it out, but once he does, he really likes the result that the book-lighting gives. It makes the light a little softer, less direct, and the image on the digital screen of the camera almost looks like it has a filter over it, despite the fact that it hasn’t been edited yet. Harry keeps the book with him while he hunts for something else to shoot, just to see if it’ll create the same effect under different conditions.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, with only the sound of the birds and the breeze floating through the air, but Louis with an unoccupied mind is a dangerous thing. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Louis says. “Did you hear about the guy? The one they pulled out of the river?” His tone implies that _meaning to ask_ doesn’t mean that the topic has been slipping his mind, but that he’s got another idea how to approach it.

Harry’s heart sinks, and he does his best not to react visibly. “Yeah,” he says lowly.

“Did you know him?” Louis asks. “Liam and Niall did. He graduated with Liam.”

“Yeah,” Harry says again. “I did. Sort of.”

“It’s awful,” Louis says. “But he didn’t— you know. It was an accident, they said. Fishing accident,” he says.

People don’t fish in the river. Not in that area of it, anyway; the current’s too strong, anyone would know that, especially someone who lived here, who grew up here. It’s interesting, though, Harry thinks, that people are willing to buy an ‘accident’. Interesting, and very, very sad.

“You’re quiet,” Louis says, like he’s going to catch Harry in some kind of lie.

“I’m busy,” Harry says again. He closes the book and hands it back to Louis in hopes of shutting him up for a little while, but Louis just puts it in his lap and blows out a thin cloud of smoke.

“June Bug?” Louis says, voice soft, serious. Harry collects his strength, lowers his camera, and looks up at Louis. “It’ll be easier if you just tell me,” Louis says, “because I know that neither of us wants me to ask.”

Harry lowers himself onto his behind, the damp ground immediately soaking through the seat of his pants. He holds his camera up, but Louis doesn’t smile, even when Harry takes the photo and clicks through his gallery to look at it.

“Harry,” Louis says.

“Okay, Louis, I knew him,” Harry snaps, still staring at the camera. “Is that what you want me to say? Yes, I knew him. He dated my sister. For two years. He was practically family. My mom still invites him to family dinners sometimes, but he doesn’t come— didn’t come, and now he definitely won’t. My parents are devastated. My sister is on her way home from New York to grieve him. I never really liked him that much,” he admits. He presses his fingers down into the soil as his voice tapers out through the trees, birdsong quickly filling in the decrescendo.

“Liam said—” Louis starts, but he doesn’t finish, looking away and hastily sticking his cigarette back between his lips.

“What?” Harry says, heart falling. “What did Liam say?”

“He— nothing, like, much,” Louis stutters. “Just that— you guys had a complicated history, you and Trevor. He talked about you a lot, Liam said.”

“What did he say?” Harry asks. “What did he say about me?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says. “Liam didn’t go, like, into detail. He just— he wanted me to check on you, because he remembered that Trevor always talked about you, even after he stopped dating your sister. He thought you might be upset, Liam did.”

Harry’s not upset. “I’m not upset,” he says, but he sounds it, and Louis crushes the burning end of his cigarette against the tree before he climbs down.

“It’s okay if you are,” Louis says. “It’s weird, y’know? Losing someone who was part of your life, in any capacity. It’s okay to feel like—”

“I don’t feel anything!” Harry says, too loud, loud enough to scare a couple birds away, loud enough to make Louis jump. “I don’t,” he says, closer to a normal volume. “He was— he was just a rotten kid.”

“Okay,” Louis says, reaching out to touch Harry’s arm. “I believe you. I just— wanted to make sure you’re alright,” he says, but he still doesn’t look like he thinks Harry’s alright. There’s a good chance Harry’s not alright. Harry can’t remember the last time he was alright.

“Will you ask Liam what Trevor said about me?” Harry asks. “I’m sure it’s nothing good, but I— I’d really like to know.”

“I’ll ask,” Louis says. “Hey, can I see some of the pictures you took?”

“Maybe later,” Harry mutters, turning the camera off before Louis can reach for it. “I should get home.”

“Already?” Louis asks. “We’ve only been out here, like, an hour,” he says.

“Gemma will be home soon,” Harry says. “I’m sure my mom is going to want me there, too.”

“Oh,” Louis says. “Alright, um. Maybe you could come by the bar later? I’ll actually be behind the bar tonight, so I’ll have more time to talk than if I was serving, so—”

“Maybe,” Harry says. “Probably not. I don’t know.”

“Well, whatever,” Louis shrugs easily. “If you can make it, that’s great, if not, I’ll try not to be too heartbroken over it,” he says; he’s trying to lighten the mood, Harry can tell, but Harry’s been feeling pretty rotten since he woke up this morning and found out it was Trevor Berry they fished out of the river instead of him, and there isn’t much lightening to be done of such a deeply soiled mood.

The trail back to the road runs close enough in some spots to hear the river, but Harry tries his hardest to block out the sound of it, to focus instead on the sound of his and Louis’s footsteps, ever so slightly out of sync, and the omnipresent birds, still singing somewhere out of sight.

Louis reaches for his hand just inside the treeline, before Harry can step out onto the sidewalk that leads back into town. “Hey,” Louis says, tugging Harry’s hand until Harry looks up at him. “I’m sorry if I, like, upset you, by bringing up the whole thing with—”

“I really just don’t want to talk about it, Louis,” Harry says, carefully pulling his hand out of Louis’s grasp. “Just— drop it. Please.”

“Dropped,” Louis says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Promise. Don’t even remember what we were talking about.”

Harry forces himself to smile just to ease Louis’s mind, but it must ease his mind just a little too well, because Louis holds his hand and walks him all the way home. All of Harry’s instincts are telling him to run, to isolate himself before Louis can get too deep in him, can learn too much about him, but he can’t seem to let go of Louis’s hand, even as they round the corner of his street, even as they approach the driveway. 

Gemma’s car is already parked in front of the garage, and the sight of it alone makes Harry’s stomach drop. It’s terrible, Harry thinks, that he’s dreading seeing his own sister so much; he’s terrible at handling emotions, is all, especially _other_ people’s emotions, and he isn’t quite sure how he’s supposed to even go about acting normal around his family at a time like this.

Louis squeezes his hand in farewell, and then it’s up to Harry alone to carry himself up the walkway and into the house. He isn’t quite sure what he should be expecting once he gets inside, but he definitely isn’t expecting silence, isn’t expecting to see Gemma sitting at the kitchen table, chin propped up on her hand, gazing out the sliding glass door to the porch as if she’s simply bored, waiting for a bus, or something.

His mother has been a mess all day; she woke him up early this morning with the news that the log they pulled out of the river was in fact Trevor Berry, and Harry’s never seen her cry so much over someone who wasn’t actually family. She loved Trevor, even after he broke up with Gemma, which Harry never really understood. The affection never really seemed mutual, but that never seemed to bother Harry’s mother a bit, despite the fact that it drove both Gemma and Harry up the wall.

She’s on the phone at the moment, puttering around the kitchen and casting nervous glances at Gemma every few moments, like she’s afraid that Gemma’s going to break if left unattended for too long. Harry doesn’t really know what else to do except shuffle into the kitchen and take the seat beside Gemma at the table, looking down when she looks up at him.

Their mother ducks out of the room the second Harry sits down, muttering something in a hushed tone to whoever she’s on the phone with. 

“Who’s she talking to?” Harry asks quietly.

“No clue,” Gemma says. “Auntie, or someone, probably.”

Harry looks up at her, trying to gauge her emotions. She doesn’t sound very upset, and she doesn’t look it, either, other than that she looks like she’s looking straight through him when she meets his eyes. She leans into him a little, head on his shoulder, and Harry wraps one stiff arm around her and tries not to think very much about anything.

“He called me the other night,” Gemma says, voice low.

“Jeez,” Harry breathes. “I— I didn’t know you still talked,” he says.

“We didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t answer,” Gemma says, even lower than before.

“Oh,” Harry says again. “Gem.”

“But he left a message,” Gemma says.

Harry blinks, heart sinking to his gut. “Oh.”

“It was weird,” Gemma says. Harry feels like he’s going to be sick, focusing very intently on one spot of the kitchen table, willing it to catch fire, or something, anything to get him out of this conversation. “He sounded rushed, like he was late for something, or he didn’t really want to be talking to me. But— he said that I should, like, talk to you,” she says.

“What?” Harry asks; every vein in his body is throbbing with thick, heavy blood, and he’s sure Gemma can feel it through his shirt. “About what?”

“I don’t know,” Gemma says. “I was kinda hoping you would know.”

Harry can’t think of a single response to give, staring a little harder at the table.

“He was always so fucking miserable, y’know? Like, he was just never happy. It was always like he was putting on a show, even when it was just the two of us,” Gemma admits.

“Is— is that why you broke up with him?” Harry asks, like he doesn’t know damn well why they actually broke up.

“He broke up with _me_ , I thought you knew that,” Gemma says. 

“Well yeah, but,” Harry shrugs, mind racing. “You never seemed very bothered.”

“Yeah,” Gemma says. “Maybe that’s true. I don’t know.”

“Why, um— why did you break up, then?” Harry asks, if only to see how much she knows.

“I don’t know, honestly,” Gemma says. “He seemed fine, and then all of a sudden he got so weird, and angry, and stressed, and then he broke up with me, like, a week later. I think I seemed so unbothered because he was being such an asshole toward the end, but now I’m wondering if there’s something I should have done for him. Like, did I miss something? Did I hurt him?”

“You can’t put that on yourself, Gem,” Harry says.

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Gemma mumbles. They’re quiet for a moment, Gemma contemplatively, Harry nervously, and then Gemma says, “Why did he want me to talk to you?”

“What?” Harry asks, too quickly, too anxiously. Gemma shifts to look up at him, her eyes wet, knowing, like she really can see right through him.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she says quietly. “I’m not stupid, Harry.”

Harry can’t react, can’t even move, his blood turning to ice in his veins. He can’t tell her, he has no idea how to tell her, he can’t possibly—

“I’m the worst sister in the world,” Gemma says, voice strained, like she’s talking around a lump in her throat about the same size as Harry’s.

“What?” Harry says. “Gem—”

“Because right when he turned into a raving dick, it was exactly the same time you stopped smiling,” Gemma says.

Harry can’t even look at her. He glues his eyes shut and looks back down at the table, waiting for the earthquake, the fire, anything to save him from having to deal with this right now. 

“You don’t have to tell me what happened, if you don’t want to,” Gemma says. “Or, like, if you’re not ready. But whatever he did to you, Harry…” she trails off, shaking her head. “I will always believe you, and I will always support you.”

“He didn’t do anything to me,” Harry says, but the waver of his voice betrays him, and Gemma only looks more crushed at the sound of him lying. Harry feels so incredibly disgusting, suddenly, he can’t even believe that Gemma is still sitting so close to him, that she isn’t cringing away from him the way Harry wishes he could cringe away from himself.

He gets up before he’s had time to think, fleeing the kitchen without another word. Gemma calls after him, but he’s already halfway up the stairs, and once he gets to his bedroom, he locks the door behind himself and slams himself down on the bed, pressing his face into his pillow and wishing he could just stop breathing.

He wants to die more right now than ever before. He hates Trevor, he fucking hates him. Trevor had no right to say that to Gemma, to make her worry and then just die before Harry could kill him himself. Harry should have said something back then, when it happened, when there was still maybe something that could have been done about it, but instead he just blocked it out, changed the story in his head, and proceeded to alienate himself from his own memory for the next six years. Trevor didn’t just wander into his room and kiss him on accident, he came in here for a reason, he came in here because he meant to, because he was drunk and curious and Harry was young and easily manipulated. He didn’t mistake this for Gemma’s room, and he didn’t innocently tease Harry into kissing him; he pretended to, that’s for sure, but there was never any version of that night in Trevor’s mind that didn’t end with his hand down the front of Harry’s pajama pants, pinning him to the door with the weight of his body, his other hand clamped over Harry’s— 

Harry barely touches the door in his haste to get it open, can’t bear to even look at it as the memories come flooding back in. He makes it down the stairs even faster than he went up, and he’s out the front door before anyone’s even noticed him, running at full tilt to the end of the street and making his clumsy way to the bridge without thinking about it at all.

He blocked those memories out for a reason, made himself seem more of the guilty party for a _reason_ , for just a hint of the illusion of autonomy, of having had any say over what happened in those few minutes. _That was when you stopped smiling_ , Gemma’s voice says in his head, and Harry has to stop running for just a few seconds to retch off the side of the road. That was when he stopped doing a lot of things, smiling included. That was when he stopped caring about himself, when he stopped caring about most things. That was when he deemed himself disposable, a waste of space, only useful at the hands of others. He went on to college on autopilot, majored in history in a subconscious effort to make some sense of the senseless past, but it didn’t work, none of it worked, Harry’s been stuck in that night since it happened, and he’s ready to get out of it if it’s the last thing he ever does.

It’s the middle of the day, but there’s not a soul around at the bridge. The sky is clouding up again, like it might rain again later, but Harry won’t be around to see it, he knows that much. He’s already crying by the time he gets up on the bridge, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been crying for, but he doesn’t really care; all he can think about, once his feet make contact with the weathered wood of the old bridge, is how good it’s going to feel to get up and over that railing, to push off and soar through the air, to hit the water like a brick wall, to feel every stupid bone in his stupid body break and to sink to the bottom like a fishing weight, like a piece of garbage.

He doesn’t hesitate at all, too scared that someone might be able to stop him. He hoists himself up over the railing and lets himself slip until his feet hit the ledge, staring down at the water rushing below him and sobbing one last time.

He has the presence of mind, right before he lets go of the bridge, to wonder what his story will be. Will they make this out to be a fishing accident, too? Will it be some sort of drunken tragedy, or some kind of adventure gone terribly wrong? Or will it just be a suicide, because he’s always been the sad, troubled boy that no one could get close to? He’s not the former star of the soccer team, not the youngest son of some legacy family in a small town, and so why would it even matter what people think? They’ll probably just say that he jumped, he was so screwed up he couldn’t take it anymore, he’s in a better place now, he’s finally at rest, finally at peace— 

The impact feels like an embrace, like a pair of arms wrapping around him and crushing every bit of air out of his lungs. It isn’t until his back hits the floor of the bridge that he realizes he’s fallen the wrong way, and the arms around him really are arms, human arms, pinning him down to the bridge and holding him firmly in place.

It knocks the wind out of him, the fall, and as his body struggles to get air back into his lungs, all he can think to do is fight. He thrashes against the weight of the body holding him down, choking and wheezing, his mind flashing with images. _Not again, this will not happen again, this cannot be happening again_ —

He lets out the loudest scream he can muster once he manages to get enough air in to do so, but he’s too weak, too overwhelmed to get away from his attacker. He’s pure adrenaline, all anxiety, he feels like he’s already underwater even way up here, as far from the river as he’s ever been.

The person on top of him is talking, talking to him, trying to tell him something, but Harry can’t hear anything past the sound of his voice. It takes him a few minutes to open his eyes, to actually face what’s happening to him, but with one last Earth shattering sob, he pries his eyes open to find Louis, of all people, looming over him, looking about as distraught as Harry feels.

Louis’s voice comes slow through the rushing of blood in Harry’s ears, but he sounds panicked, still holding Harry down so hard it hurts. “What are you doing?” he’s asking, over and over, his voice shaking and shrill. “What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?”

“Stop,” Harry wheezes, still thrashing against Louis’s hold. “Stop, stop, let me—”

“You’re fine,” Louis tells him. “It’s me, you’re fine, it’s only me.”

“No,” Harry cries, smashing his head back against the bridge in his struggle. Louis loosens up a little bit, then, but Harry’s already lost most of his fight, weakly at pushing at Louis’s arms. “He— he—”

Louis shushes him gently, loosening his hold a little more. “Breathe, Harry,” he says, and Harry tries, but he chokes on an inhale and it makes him gag, and Louis finally releases him enough to let him turn onto his side. Harry finds Louis’s leg and presses his face into it, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass before he tries to breathe again.

“He hurt me,” Harry admits, sobbing when Louis hunches over to hug him. “He hurt me, he—”

“It’s okay,” Louis says, petting his hand down Harry’s spine. “You’re safe, Harry.”

“He told— my sister— to ask me—” Harry hiccups, “about— about—”

“Harry, stop,” Louis says. “Just stop for a minute, calm down a bit—”

“He made me,” Harry sobs. “He— I was _sixteen_.”

Louis grabs him by the shoulders, sitting him up quickly enough to disorient him a little, startle him out of his blind panic. He gets his arms around Harry properly and Harry melts into him, pressing his face into Louis’s t-shirt and breathing as deep as his compromised lungs will allow. Louis smells, unsurprisingly, like himself, like cigarettes and cologne and sweat. The scent is overwhelmingly comforting, and Harry can’t pull himself away, breathing hot against Louis’s chest through his shirt and then breathing in again as deep as he can manage.

“Okay,” Louis says, smoothing his hand over Harry’s shoulders, and then all the way down his back. “Okay, see?”

“He t— he touched me,” Harry says, voice muffled by Louis’s shirt. “And then— and then he kissed my sister.”

Louis sighs a little, squeezing Harry tighter. “Harry—”

“I’ve never felt— so fucking— worthless,” Harry grits out. “I feel so— I feel so _gross_.”

“Does she know?” Louis asks. “Your sister?”

“No,” Harry says. “And I can’t tell her, because she’ll blame herself, and I— I just want to d—”

“No,” Louis says firmly. 

“I don’t want this life anymore,” Harry says, voice small. “I don’t want to be me.”

“Then be someone different,” Louis says, like it’s that easy.

“I _can’t_ ,” Harry hisses, leaking a few more tears against Louis’s chest. “That’s the fucking _problem_.”

“Okay, maybe not,” Louis admits. “But you can make changes, bug, you can heal. The answer isn’t in giving up. I know it’s excruciating, but you have to keep trying.”

Harry feels another wave of desperation come over him at that, but he doesn’t vocalize it. He can feel himself coming down from the peak of his distress, the real world seeping back into his numb, tingling body, and suddenly he’s mortified, ashamed that Louis found him like this.

“Why were you out here?” Harry asks, sitting up a little to look at Louis’s face.

“I didn’t wanna go home yet,” Louis says. “I wasn’t feeling right about— about anything, I guess, and it can be hard, sometimes, acting like everything is fine when it isn’t. I know it isn’t true, but I feel like I can’t show weakness around the girls, like, I have to be the strong one, and when I’m not strong, things fall apart. I’m just— not feeling very strong right now, I guess,” he says.

Harry blinks, closing his eyes. “Me either,” he says.

Louis watches him for a moment, and then says, “That’s okay.”

It isn’t, really, but Harry doesn’t say so, glancing back over toward the railing so that Louis can’t see his face anymore. He could still do it, he thinks, if Louis walked away; he could still drag himself up and over that railing without a problem, and it would probably be the nicest thing he’s ever done for himself.

Louis, luckily, doesn’t walk away. He does stand up, but he brings Harry with him, shuffling him off to the side to remove them both from the path of a cyclist. Louis’s eyes are stuck on something at the end of the bridge, near the treeline, and Harry’s already got a heavy ball of dread in his stomach when he turns around to look.

Gemma looks worried, but more confused than anything, lingering just beside the bridge like she isn’t sure what to do. That’s that, Harry thinks, the end of the secret. He’ll have to tell her now. Maybe she’ll even be able to help, somehow.

“That’s my sister,” he mutters, unable to meet Louis’s eye for more than a second when he glances back at him. “She— I think I have to talk to her.”

“Okay,” Louis says, squeezing Harry’s hip gently. “You want moral support?”

“No,” Harry lies. “I think— I think I have to do this on my own.”

Louis nods, backing away a few slow steps. Harry reaches for him before he can get far, though, tugging him back in to kiss his cheek quickly. 

“Don’t go too far,” he breathes. “Please.”

“I’ll be right here,” Louis says, smiling gently. “Promise.”

Harry doesn’t move again until Louis’s all the way at the other end of the bridge, eyes stuck on him, heart rising steadily into his throat. Louis ducks into the treeline and disappears for a few seconds, only to reappear further down the riverbank, where the land slopes down toward the rushing water. Harry sits down on the edge of the bridge, inside the railing, with his feet hanging over, watching Louis climb all the way down to where he can perch himself on a boulder at the water’s edge and dangle his fingers in the water.

He feels Gemma sit down beside him, feels her anxiety like a cool breeze. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Louis until Gemma nudges him, and finally Harry closes his eyes and leans against her.

“What’s his name?” she asks, supporting Harry’s weight like it’s nothing at all.

“Louis,” Harry says, voice barely as loud as the distant rushing of the river below. 

“Mom thinks he’s an angel,” Gemma says. “She called me yesterday, before we heard the news about— she wanted to talk about you, how you’d met someone, and she was pretty sure he wasn’t even human, that’s how perfect he is.”

Louis shifts to lie down on his rock, leaving his arm stretched out to feel the water on his hand. At least Harry and his mother agree on one thing; Louis is far too good to be anything less than supernatural.

“Gem, I—”

“You don’t have to,” Gemma says. “I think I— well, I can’t even imagine, actually, and I don’t want to, but I— by the way you reacted, I—”

“It only happened once,” Harry says. “And I threatened to tell you, and that’s why he—”

“Jesus, Harry,” Gemma says. “I wish you had. I wish you had told me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Harry says. “When I told him I would, I— I never wanted you to know. I feel— it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gemma says, wrapping her arms around him sideways. “Harry, I—”

“I didn’t know you noticed,” Harry says, voice wobbling. “I didn’t know that anyone noticed that I changed after.”

“I wish I— is there something I could have done?” Gemma asks. “Was there something I could have done to stop him from—”

“Nothing could have stopped him,” Harry mutters. “He was drunk, and everyone was outside at the pool, and he knew exactly what he was doing. He pretended to be looking for your room, but he knew, he—”

Gemma whimpers, squeezing him a little tighter like she can squeeze the pain right out of him.

“He caught me sitting by the window, watching everyone. He started teasing me, daring me to come get a better look if I liked the view so much, saying I was too pussy to kiss him, and I— I did, Gemma, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Gemma says immediately. “It’s not your fault.”

“He made me make the first move and then he— he just wouldn’t stop,” Harry whispers. “He wouldn’t stop.”

“He was a piece of shit,” Gemma says. “He did it to me, too, if it makes you feel any better. Tricked me, made me— do things, y’know.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Harry says. “Why didn’t you leave him?”

“I thought it was normal?” Gemma laughs humorlessly. “I thought that all men were sex-obsessed dogs, because that’s how all the girls talked about them, too. It’s not normal, though, Harry, it’s _not_.”

Harry’s eyes catch on Louis again, and he nods, even though his vision is swimming with tears. “I know.”

“Mom told me you’ve been struggling more than usual lately,” Gemma says, reaching up to brush a tear off of Harry’s cheek the second it rolls. “She says that Louis told her some things, because he had reason to believe it was you, y’know, instead of Trevor.”

“I’m doing better,” Harry says. “I was, until— y’know. Today.”

“Right,” Gemma says. “Y’know, when I graduated from college, I cried myself to sleep every night for, like, two months.”

“Really?” Harry asks.

“It’s such a big deal, y’know? And such a big accomplishment, but it’s like— it fucking _sucks_ , at the same time, doesn’t it?”

“Totally sucks,” Harry says. “I feel like last month I was still just a little kid playing dress up in shoes way too big for me, and now I’ve just been set off to walk the globe in these shoes I’m still swimming in.”

“ _Exactly_!” Gemma says. “You think you’ve got it all under control, but the second you get out of that little pseudo-reality of campus, you realize that nothing in the world makes sense, and you’ve just got to figure it all out somehow.”

“I have no idea what to do with my life,” Harry says. “I don’t have a job, I don’t _want_ a job, I don’t want to do _anything_ , I just— I don’t know.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Gemma says, and she sounds so sure of it, Harry almost believes her. “What you need to do is get the _hell_ out of this town, and I promise you’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t know how to,” Harry says. “I don’t know how to leave.”

“What about him?” Gemma asks, nodding down at Louis. Louis has shifted again, hunting through the reeds at the edge of the water for something, and Harry shrugs.

“He lives with his grandmother, sort of near the center of town. He works two jobs so he can help put his little sisters through college,” Harry says. 

“Damn,” Gemma mutters. “So he _is_ an angel.”

“He’s mine,” Harry says, giving her half a smile. “So don’t get any ideas.”

“Have you talked to him about any of this?” Gemma asks.

“All the time,” Harry says. “I’ve only known him a few weeks, but— he knows me better than anyone in the world,” he admits.

“Well, maybe _he_ can be your escape,” Gemma says. “It was New York for me, but maybe— maybe you don’t need a physical change of scenery, but, like, a metaphorical one.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “But even that feels impossible,” he sighs.

“Why’s that?” Gemma asks.

“D’you know who I’ve been hanging out with the past few weeks? _Liam Payne_ ,” Harry says.

“No way,” Gemma says lowly.

“He’s Louis’s best friend,” Harry says gravely. “And Niall Horan, too. They didn’t have a clue who I was when Louis introduced us, other than that I was your little brother. But, you wanna know the worst part? I actually enjoy spending time with them,” he says.

“Well, would you look at that,” Gemma laughs. “All roads lead to Bayview High, hm?”

“Unfortunately,” Harry says. “Everything’s just— I don’t know. Weird.”

“Liam’s a good guy,” Gemma says. “I never really knew Niall, but he always seemed sweet. They were friends with Trevor, which doesn’t exactly award them any bonus points, but then again, so was I,” she says.

Harry nods, putting his head down on Gemma’s shoulder for a moment. Louis finally catches whatever he’s hunting, and he sets off up the riverbank at a run, hands clamped closed over whatever he’s found.

“Gem?” Harry asks, looking up at her.

“Yes?” Gemma hums.

“Would it be okay if I came and visited you in New York sometime?” Harry asks. “Like, maybe just for a few days?”

“Oh my God, yes!” Gemma says. “That would be so fun! You never got to see my apartment, because you were sick when I moved in, remember? I’d love to have you visit,” she says.

Harry wasn’t sick when Gemma moved in; he was sick with jealousy, maybe, heavy with the feeling of abandonment, and laden with the sudden weight of all of their parents’ attention all to himself, but he made the conscious decision to stay home while Gemma and their parents drove away to move Gemma into a different state. He thinks that’s a detail he can keep to himself, though, amidst all of these secrets coming to light.

“Thanks,” he says, finally shifting to hug her back. “I miss you, I guess.”

“I love you, Harry,” Gemma says, squeezing him tight. 

“Love you,” Harry says.

Louis’s at the edge of the bridge again when Harry finally sits up, still holding something sealed between his hands. Harry gives him a little smile, and Louis takes it as his cue to come running over, plopping himself right down on the bridge beside Harry and holding his hands out.

“Look what I found down by the river,” he says, giddy, slightly out of breath from climbing the riverbank. He opens his hands slowly to reveal a beetle nearly the size of his palm, and Gemma flinches.

“What is that?” Gemma breathes, horrified, scuttling away when Louis lowers his hand to let the beetle climb onto Harry’s shorts.

“June Bug,” Louis says proudly, watching Harry carefully when he looks up.

“That’s great, Louis, and super cute that you found that and brought it to me, but if you don’t remove it from my person immediately, I swear to god, I’ll push you off this bridge,” Harry says.

Louis laughs brightly, quickly scooping the beetle up in his hands again and freeing it in the opposite direction, away from Harry and Gemma. “Thought you might like to know he was here,” Louis says, a little softer than before. 

Harry smiles hesitantly, but it feels so good to smile, after the day he’s had, that he can’t help but reach out for Louis, pulling him closer to plant a kiss on his mouth. 

“Ew, bring the bug back,” Gemma says. “Somehow, that was less gross.”

Louis laughs again as he pulls away from Harry, leaning around him to smile at Gemma. “Hi,” he says cheerfully. “I’m Louis. I’d shake your hand, but I think that bug shit on me.”

“That’s fantastic,” Gemma says. “I’m Gemma, Harry’s sister.”

“Sorry, uh, for your loss,” Louis says, but he doesn’t sound it, reaching subtly for Harry’s hand.

“Not really my loss,” Gemma shrugs. “But thank you, regardless. No one should have to go like that,” she says.

“I agree,” Louis says, eyes stuck on Harry. 

Harry looks down, letting Louis lace their fingers together without offering very much help nor resistance. Louis keeps squeezing his hand, like he wants Harry to know that he’s there, but Harry has no idea how to let him know how much he appreciates it.

“Well, I should get home, probably,” Gemma says, standing up from the bridge and dusting off the seat of her shorts. “The wake is this afternoon, and mom will definitely murder me if I don’t go with her. Harry, um, do you— do you think you’ll come?” she asks, like she’s scared to hear the answer.

Harry doesn’t look up, shrugging one shoulder. “Mom wants me to,” he mutters.

“Well, I’ll— I’ll be there, y’know, so,” Gemma says awkwardly. 

“I’ll be there, too, I think,” Louis says, earning himself a confused glance from both Harry and Gemma. “Liam’s car finally shit the bed, so I told him and Niall I’d give them a ride before I have to go to work tonight. Zayn’s coming, too, because he doesn’t like to be left out of things.”

Harry feels like he’s going to be sick, mind racing as he stares at Louis’s face. Louis looks nervous, suddenly, eyes flickering between Harry and Gemma quickly.

“Well, Harry, we’re leaving right at four o’clock, if you decide you want to come with us,” she says, petting the top of Harry’s head sweetly before she turns away. “Nice to meet you, Louis,” she calls.

“Is it— is it okay that I bring the guys there?” Louis says. “I wasn’t going to go inside, but I was going to offer to come in with you, if you wanted, or if you want to come in with us, or—”

“I don’t want you there,” Harry says, pulling his hand out of Louis’s.

Louis flinches, eyes going wide. “Wh—”

“I don’t want you to be there,” Harry says firmly. “I don’t— why would you—”

“I won’t,” Louis says quickly. “I won’t go in, okay?”

“Don’t,” Harry says, climbing clumsily to his feet and backing away. 

“I won’t, bug,” Louis assures him, jumping to his feet, too. “I have to drive Liam and Niall, but I won’t— I won’t even stay, I’ll do laps around the block until they come out, or—”

Harry turns on his heel, marching off the bridge without another word. Louis runs to get ahead of him, trying to stop him in his tracks.

“Hey,” Louis says, grabbing both of Harry’s wrists so that he can’t turn away. “Are you— why are you mad?”

“Because I don’t want to fucking go,” Harry says through his teeth. “But I can’t not go if you’re there. You can’t— you can’t be there if I’m not.”

“I’m not going,” Louis says. “I’m not going in, June Bug, I told you—”

“But you’ll still be there,” Harry mutters. “I have to go.”

“June Bug,” Louis says, releasing Harry’s wrists easily when Harry pulls away. “ _Harry_.”

“What?” Harry bites out.

“It’s not about you,” Louis says. Harry flinches, turning back slowly. Louis looks annoyed, like Harry’s being as petulant as he suddenly feels, and Harry wants to melt into the ground. “I’m driving my friends to the wake of their high school soccer captain. It has nothing to do with you.”

Harry feels like an ass, because Louis’s right, after all; regardless of what Trevor did, he was still someone in Liam and Niall’s lives, and they have every right to mourn him. It’s not about Harry, and it’s not about Louis, either, and it’s certainly not about the gaping fissure in Harry’s chest that still burns like a fresh wound every time he thinks about Trevor, or about that night, or about anything before or after it. He doesn’t know how to apologize, though, doesn’t know how to tell Louis that he’s right, because he doesn’t really want to admit it. He still doesn’t like the thought of Louis being there, but as hard as he tries, Harry cannot separate this event from himself, and the ease with which Louis apparently can is rather unsettling. 

Louis doesn’t stop him this time when he turns to go, and before Harry turns the corner away from the bridge, he glances back to find that Louis is already long gone. 

-

They don’t leave the house until a few minutes after four, because Harry keeps waffling about what to wear, and Gemma keeps having to lock herself in the bathroom to try and get herself in check so that their mother won’t suspect she’s anything other than distraught over the death of her high school boyfriend. 

Harry settles on black jeans and a black button down, toeing the line of too casual for a wake and the perfect amount of subtle disrespect for the person Trevor was. He can’t imagine anything he’d like to do less than attend Trevor’s wake, but, if anything, he’s happy to be there for Gemma, squeezing her hand as they join the line inside the door of the funeral home.

He doesn’t see Liam or Niall, which probably means they haven’t come in yet. The wake only started at four, and there’s a good amount of people here, which means they would have had to have been the first people here if they’ve already managed to slip out. He keeps an eye out for them, maybe only to make sure that Louis is not, in fact, with them, but in the time it takes them to get almost to the front of the line, he doesn’t see them walk in.

It’s nice, it turns out, to have had a distraction, because when they finally step up to offer their condolences to Trevor’s parents and older brother, Harry feels like he’s going to be sick all over again. He can’t even find it within himself to be cordial to Mr. and Mrs. Berry, eyes stuck on Trevor’s closed casket, hand tight around Gemma’s. 

As hard as he tries, it’s impossible not to imagine what lies inside that casket. He’s thought a lot over the years, admittedly, about what he’d look like after he jumped, when they fished him out of the water and tried to put him back together. It makes him feel even worse, somehow, to imagine Trevor’s pretty face, all cut and bloated and pale, his lips blue and his eyes swollen shut. Realistically, Harry knows that there’s no sticks and reeds in his hair, and that the clothes he’s being buried in aren’t still soggy and caked with mud, that they probably cleaned out the algae from beneath his fingernails and removed the water from his lungs. He wonders what it’s like to be the one in the box, if Trevor is still in there, somewhere, listening to all these people crying over him, waiting for his soul to be released when they put him in the ground tomorrow. He wonders if he would still be able to hear, if he were the dead one, if he’d be eager to hear what everyone might be saying about him, or if he’d be more eager to be laid to rest and escape this world once and for all.

Gemma tugs him away before he’s ready, but long after his socially acceptable window for staring at the casket has passed. He keeps his head down as Gemma drags him back to the door, but someone catches his arm before they make it, pulling Harry to a stop so abruptly that Gemma’s hand slips right out of his.

“June Bug,” Niall says, voice a little more somber than Harry knew it could be. “Hey.”

“Um, hi,” Harry says, glancing over at Gemma and his mother.

“Liam,” Gemma says, offering Liam a gentle smile. “Jesus, I haven’t seen you since, like—”

“Summer after freshman year,” Liam says, reaching out to touch her arm awkwardly, like he isn’t sure what to do.

Harry wonders what Louis told them, if he said anything at all, or if Liam and Niall are just as clueless as Harry would like them to be. 

“Were you still close?” Gemma asks. “Trevor was always so fond of all of you.”

“We hadn’t talked in years,” Liam says.

“He kinda disappeared after that summer,” Niall says. “After he went back to school, like. It was like he turned into a different person.”

“I keep thinking we should have reached out,” Liam says, voice trembling a little. 

Harry narrowly keeps himself from scoffing, crossing his arms over his chest. He thinks he has a pretty good idea why Trevor changed and pushed them all away, but he can’t say as much for where it all started to go downhill for him, how he got here from there.

“Hey, have you talked to Louis?” Niall asks, catching Harry’s attention. “He said you had a fight earlier.”

“You had a fight?” Gemma asks, turning to Harry quickly.

“I wouldn’t call it a fight,” Harry says weakly. 

“He’s feeling pretty bad,” Liam says. “He really only talks to Zayn about this stuff, though, so I don’t really know.”

“Did Zayn come, too?” Harry asks. 

“Yeah, they might still be outside,” Niall says. “Louis said he didn’t really want to sit around while we were in here, though, so they might be driving around, or something.”

“Right,” Harry says, ducking his head. “Well, nice to see you guys.”

He rushes out before Gemma or his mother have finished waving goodbye, standing on the front step of the funeral home and sweeping his eyes over the parking lot. There’s a pizza shop across the road, which seems inappropriate, but theres a familiar silver car parked in front of it, facing the road, and Harry only gets a few seconds to stare into it before his mother and sister catch up.

“Why did you fight?” Gemma asks quietly, once their mother has set off to pull the car around. “How did you even have _time_ to fight, you got home two minutes after me—”

“It’s nothing,” Harry says. “Will you tell mom I’ll be home later?”

Gemma follows his line of sight across the road, and then nudges his shoulder with her own. “Go get him,” she breathes, giving him a gentle push off the front steps.

Harry all but runs across the road, jumping over the curb as Louis’s car door swings open. Harry buries himself in Louis’s chest before Louis even has a chance to close the door, but Louis only stumbles a little.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, “you were right. It’s not about me, and I feel so stupid and horrible—”

“No, I was totally wrong to say that to you,” Louis says. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now, and I had no right to tell you that you were being unreasonable. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry says. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Always,” Louis says, holding Harry close. “I always will be.”

“Can I come with you?” Harry asks, glancing up at Louis’s face.

“Of course you can,” Louis smiles, “but I do have work in a few hours. I was going drop the others off at Zayn’s after this,” he says.

Harry hesitates. “Oh,” he says.

“But, get in,” Louis says, a little too eagerly, pulling away from Harry and gesturing to the car. “I still have two hours until work.”

Harry climbs into the backseat of Louis’s car without another thought, smiling awkwardly at Zayn when Zayn turns around to nod at him.

“Hey, June Bug,” Zayn says, so casually, as if they’re not parked outside of a funeral home Harry’s just come out of. 

“Hey,” Harry says.

“Are you gonna hang out with us tonight?” Zayn asks, turning a little more to rest his back against the car door. Louis climbs back into the car and somehow manages to close the door with barely a sound, like he doesn’t want to spook Harry out of answering Zayn’s question.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry says.

“It’s gonna be a chill night, I promise,” Zayn says. “Liam and Niall wanted to buy balloons, or something, and let them go, for Trevor,” he says.

Harry catches Louis’s eye in the rear view mirror; Louis is watching him so intently, ready to intervene with excuses. “Oh, um. I think I’m good, actually,” Harry says, voice low.

“Are you sure?” Zayn says, like he’s genuinely disappointed by Harry’s refusal. “You’re more than welcome, bro.”

“I just don’t really… feel comfortable with that,” Harry says awkwardly, keeping his eyes on his knees.

“Oh,” Zayn says. “Well, you don’t have to participate, dude. I was just gonna watch from my balcony, anyway,” he shrugs.

Harry looks up at Louis in the mirror again, and Louis is still staring into his soul like he can tell exactly what Harry’s thinking, but Harry opens his mouth again before Louis can jump to defend him.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, heart already racing at the thought of what he’s just agreed to. “I guess I’ll come.”

Zayn grins, leaning his head sideways against the head rest of his seat. “Sick,” he hums.

“I’ll come over, too, if I get out of work early,” Louis says, more for Harry’s benefit than anything, Harry can tell. “I think I’m supposed to be first cut tonight.”

Zayn moans, suddenly, reaching out to grab at Louis’s thigh. Harry’s eyes drop to Zayn’s hand, hyperfocused on the way Louis flinches and tenses up, but Zayn only lets out a very pornographic sounding breath and says, “bring those mozzarella sticks from the bar, _please_.”

Louis laughs, shoving Zayn’s hand away gently. “Will do, babe,” he says, meeting Harry’s eyes again as soon as Zayn looks away.

The weird mixture of jealousy and discomfort in Harry’s stomach at seeing someone touch Louis and watching Louis react the way he did almost distracts Harry from the anxiety building in his chest at the thought of hanging out with Louis’s friends without Louis around, but the latter wins over the majority of his brain space in very little time at all. It will be fine, he’s sure of it, Louis’s friends are some of the kindest people Harry’s ever met, but he’s not exactly in the best of mental states today, and he’s never been terribly good at warming up to people who he doesn’t know very well. He is rather eager to speak to Liam, though, to ask him about what Louis told him earlier, that Trevor talked about him often. He’s not sure that he’s going to be awfully pleased with whatever it is Trevor had to say about him, but he’s been thinking about it since Louis mentioned it this morning, and he needs to know.

Louis puts the car in drive before Liam and Niall have even fully emerged from the front door of the funeral home, crossing the street quickly and pulling up in front of the entrance. Liam and Niall pile in quietly, neither of them really making eye contact with anyone.

“How was it?” Zayn asks after far too long of a pause, once Louis has pulled back out onto the road.

“Weird,” Liam says lowly.

“It doesn’t feel real,” Niall mumbles.

“How so?” Zayn asks curiously.

“It’s weird when someone dies, and you realize you didn’t know a thing about them at all, really, the whole time they were alive,” Liam says. His tone is bitter enough to set a stone sinking in Harry’s stomach, and it weighs him down to the seat, back sliding against the backrest as he sags a little beside Liam.

“I never, ever, ever thought he was gay,” Niall blurts out, but Harry isn’t the only one who flinches; Louis jumps like something hit him, immediately looking up to catch Harry’s eye in the mirror again.

“Yeah,” Liam agrees. “He used to say shit at team sleepovers, y’know, he would make stupid comments and pretend to hit on the other guys, but none of us ever thought he was actually— I mean, I seriously would have pegged him as a homophobe before I ever pegged him as gay,” he says.

“His girlfriend caught him with some guy at a party a few weeks ago,” Niall says, to clue in the other members of the party. “We overheard someone saying it.”

“Which is fine,” Liam rushes. “Well, not fine that he cheated on his girlfriend, but fine that he liked guys, like, there’s nothing wrong with _that_ part of it— but the other guy was _unconscious_ ,” he says.

Harry feels like he’s going to be sick, leaning his head back against the headrest and looking anywhere but at Louis’s omnipresent eyes, still watching him from the front seat.

“No fucking way,” Zayn says.

“I mean, I never thought Trevor Berry was winning any kind of character of the year awards, or anything, but I didn’t know he was that much of a piece of shit,” Niall says.

“I cried over a fucking _rapist_ ,” Liam scoffs.

Louis shifts his gaze to look at Harry in the side mirror instead, probably to be a little less obvious, but Harry still can’t really meet his eye. Not only did Trevor hurt both him _and_ Gemma, but he did it to other people, too, heaven knows how many other people, and what he did to them, if he did things even worse than— 

“I wish we’d have fucking known,” Niall says. “I definitely wouldn’t have posted that picture of him this morning telling him to rest in peace,” he mutters.

Harry feels his stomach settle a little at that, and he meets Louis’s eye briefly just to remind himself to breathe. He didn’t think it would help, honestly, to have other people know the kind of person that Trevor was, and to know that they also are disgusted by it, but it does. He feels safe in this backseat, at the very least, as Niall pulls out his phone to delete the post he made earlier, as Liam goes on and on about how sick and twisted a person must be to take advantage of someone like that. 

“Do you still want to do the balloon thing?” Zayn asks, scrunching his nose over the side of his seat back.

“Not really,” Liam says.

“No chance,” Niall scoffs.

“I think we should set off fireworks,” Harry says, before his brain can stop him. It comes out as sarcastic as he meant, but louder than he meant, and both Liam and Niall snap their heads around to look at him as if they didn’t even realize he was there before now.

“Wait, _fun_ ,” Niall says.

“I’d light off a firework right now,” Liam says. “Is that totally morbid?”

“Yes,” Harry says quickly. “I didn’t really mean that—”

“Yes you did,” Louis says, pulling the car over on the side of the road so quickly he nearly blows his brakes out. “Where can we buy fireworks?”

“I’m already on it,” Zayn says, tapping away on his phone. “They sell those Roman candle things at Walmart,” he announces a moment later.

“Good enough,” Louis says. “Good with Roman candles, boyss?”

“I love that,” Niall says. “This is way more fun than balloons.”

The self-checkout attendant inside the closest Walmart seems intrigued as she watches the five of them purchase one Roman candle each in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, but she doesn’t say anything, blessedly. They’re halfway back to Zayn’s when Louis decides they should have champagne, too, which seems to be just a step too far, but no one argues.

It’s not even dark yet by the time they get back to Zayn’s, but Louis wants to be included in the celebration, and nobody wants to have to wait until midnight when he gets out of work to do it then. Louis digs a lighter out of the glovebox in his car and they congregate in the center of the desolate parking lot of Zayn’s apartment complex, a safe distance from any trees, cars, or other people, and before Harry knows, he’s grinning, laughing, thrusting his Roman candle up high over his head as the five of them shoot their little balls of sparkling light up into the air, watching them fizzle out and rain down in ashes.

“I was going to say a few words when we released the balloons,” Liam says, eyes glowing as he watches the light show. “But now, all I want to say is: fuck you, Trevor Berry!”

“ _Fuck you, Trevor Berry_!” the others echo, laughing and cheering as the pops of light and sound start to die out.

Louis’s candle is the last to stop shooting off, and before it’s done, he grabs Harry by the front of his button down shirt, tugging him in to kiss him hard. The very last ball of light bursts over their head, and then the parking lot falls quiet again, aside from the rushing of blood in Harry’s ears as Louis drops his burnt out candle and wraps both arms around Harry, instead.

“Not that I’d put it past him,” Zayn says conspiratorially to the others, “but does Louis seem a little too turned on by the suicide of a rapist?”

Louis pulls away laughing, watching Harry’s eyes for a moment to make sure he’s alright. Harry’s alright, he’s more than alright, he’s never felt so good, so safe, so supported and cared for and vindicated.

“Karma really gets me going,” Louis says, pulling away from Harry to start collecting everyone’s candles, tossing them back into the shopping bag. “My kink is when bad things happen to bad people.”

“Louis Tomlinson has a _kink_ ,” Zayn laughs brightly, stealing the shopping bag out of Louis’s hands just to hit him with it. “You’ve changed him, June Bug.”

Harry laughs, holding Louis happily when Louis tucks his face into his neck to hide from the others. “Thank you, guys,” Harry says, chin hooked over Louis’s shoulder. “I really needed this tonight.”

“Let’s go drink champagne,” Zayn says, leading the way to the front door of his building. Harry doesn’t miss the look that Liam shoots him, mostly confused, a little bit curious, but Liam doesn’t ask what’s on his mind, not yet, anyway.

Louis only stays long enough to drink a glass of champagne, and half of Harry’s, before he has to leave to get ready for work. He leaves in a flurry, but he makes sure to linger by the door to give Harry a look meaningful enough that Harry knows he’s safe here, he’s in good hands, even if Louis himself can’t be around.

“Look at that, boys,” Niall says, the second Louis has gone. “We’ve got our little June Bug all to ourselves.”

“Tell us secrets about Louis,” Zayn says through a mouthful of food, which Harry does not remember him procuring from anywhere in particular. “What’s he like in bed? I’ve always wondered.”

“That’s a weird thing to wonder,” Harry says gravely.

“Is it?” Zayn asks. “Hm.”

“Since Louis can’t be here tonight to protect you from these assholes,” Liam says, scooting a little closer to Harry so that he can wrap an arm loosely around his shoulders, “I hereby assign myself the role of your guardian angel for the evening. Don’t worry, June Bug, I won’t let them bully you.”

“Thanks,” Harry giggles, snuggling gratefully into Liam’s side while Niall and Zayn grumble amongst themselves. It’s remarkable, Harry thinks, how at ease he already feels, and Louis’s only been gone all of twenty seconds. He’s cuddling Liam, for example, who he barely knows, and he doesn’t even feel very awkward about it, even when Liam pats his shoulder comfortingly and pulls away.

The evening devolves rather quickly; Zayn and Niall drink a little too much champagne, but they’re still good fun, even when they’re giggling beyond comprehension and arguing about the lyrics to some song Harry’s never heard. Harry’s having quite a good time, despite the ever present thought in the back of his mind about what Liam knows, which he can’t stop thinking about even while he’s laughing with the others.

It isn’t until Liam gets up to go to the kitchen to get some snacks for everyone that Harry finds his opportunity. He follows Liam to the kitchen almost immediately, leaning against the counter while Liam snoops through Zayn’s cabinets.

“Hey, um, can I ask you something?” Harry says quietly, though he’s absolutely sure that the others cannot hear them over their own playful bickering on the other side of the apartment.

“Yeah?” Liam asks, peeking into a box of crackers.

“Um,” Harry says, swallowing hard. “So, Louis said, this morning— like, he said, um— that you said—”

“Is everything okay?” Liam asks, looking a lot more concerned when Harry looks up at him again.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, voice small. “Louis told me that you said that Trevor, like, talked about me.”

Liam goes quiet for a moment, looking down at the crackers in his hand again. “Um. Yeah, I guess,” he says.

“What— what did he say about me?” Harry asks. “You don’t have to answer that, if you don’t, like, want to, but— it’s been killing me. What did— was he—”

“He just, like, talked about you,” Liam says. “I don’t know. It was weird, almost, how much he talked about you. It was in passing, mostly, like, if someone mentioned something, like, random— I don’t know. He just found a lot of excuses to bring you up, I guess,” he shrugs.

“In a good way?” Harry says. “Or, like— was he knocking me? Did he say, like—”

“You lived in his head, Harry,” Liam says quietly. “I don’t know how else to explain it. He was never particularly nice when he talked about you, but, like, he also wasn’t talking shit, y’know? He just— you seemed to be on his mind, like, a lot. I never really knew why, but I also never thought too hard about it,” he says.

“Right,” Harry nods quickly. “Okay, thank you, sorry—”

“Harry,” Liam says, voice a little more serious than Harry’s ready to deal with. “If there’s— if he—”

“Thank you, Liam,” Harry rushes, turning on his heel and making for the bathroom. He wants the balcony, wants the fresh air and the room to breathe, but that’s a little too exposed, a little too easy to be followed. He shuts himself in Zayn’s bathroom and sits down hard on the side of the tub, putting his head in his hands to think for a minute or two.

Not that it’s Liam’s fault, but Harry feels even worse now than he did before. It doesn’t help at all to know that Trevor was just constantly thinking about him, that Harry— how did Liam put it? _Lived in his head_? It doesn’t make any more sense than it ever did, and Harry regrets even finding the nerve to ask. His mind is racing faster than he can even keep up with, full to the brim with questions Harry will never get the answer to. Harry clearly wasn’t the only person Trevor did this to, but does the fact that he kept thinking about him afterward mean he was… special in some way? Was Harry Trevor’s first, too? Did the memory of that evening haunt him the same way it’s been haunting Harry for years now? Why did he do it? Why did he feel the need? Why _Harry_ , of all people, _why him_ — 

He gets up and turns the sink on as hard as it’ll go, hoping the sound of the water masks the sound of him gagging over the toilet bowl. He has so many questions, more of them every second, and nobody in the world who can give him any answers. He almost wishes he’d been able to send himself over the side of that bridge this morning if only just to follow Trevor down, catch him on his way into Hell and demand some fucking answers.

“June _Bug_!” someone calls from outside the bathroom, startling him out of his spiral. “Hurry up!” It’s Niall. “We’re playing Mario Kart!”

Harry takes a few more seconds to gather himself, holding his mouth under the running tap and swallowing as much water as he can stand before he turns the sink off and neatens his shirt. He’s not really quite ready yet to rejoin society when he steps out of the bathroom, but no one seems to notice, not even Liam, who is staring determinedly at the controller in his hands.

“Here,” Niall says, handing over a little red controller the second Harry’s within reach. “I hope you like Toad. I picked out your car for you.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, settling into the corner of the couch. “I love Toad.”

“Well, you date Louis, so, we figured,” Zayn says. 

Harry snorts, familiarizing himself with the buttons on the controller as Zayn starts the race. He’s in a good place, he thinks, physically, with these guys. Even Liam, who’s as close as anyone to figuring out what Harry’s got going on inside of him, just seems happy to have him here, teaching him how to hold down the A button just before the race begins to give himself a boost.

It’s been so long since Harry’s had a proper group of friends like this. He had friends, sure, in high school, but he never really got close to anyone in college, and it’s too late now to try and reconnect with his old friends from around here. He’s not sure he’d want his old friends, anyway; they never really understood him, especially after the whole Trevor incident, and he’s almost positive that they wouldn’t be nearly as supportive and comforting to be around as Louis’s friends are.

He’s lucky, he thinks once again, to have wandered into Louis’s life. He can’t help but wonder, as he loses spectacularly to all three guys and every single computer in the race, what might have happened if he hadn’t met Louis out there on that bridge that night. Would he have really done it? Would it be him now, after all, inside that box in the funeral parlor? What would Trevor had done, if Harry had died first? Would he be feeling as horrible as Harry does right now, wondering if he was present in one of those very last thoughts before the water rushed up to meet him, wondering what the straw was that broke the camel’s back, if he had a hand in that unfortunate, untimely end? That’s new, he thinks, the suspicion that he might have had a hand in Trevor’s decision to jump. He’s probably thinking too highly of himself, but then again, it’s an intriguing thought, that Trevor might have felt so overcome with grief for what he’d done to Harry, what he’d done to all those other people, heaven knows how many of them, that he couldn’t take it anymore. He did tell Gemma to talk to him, didn’t he? He talked about Harry in front of Liam enough that Liam remembered, years later, to have Louis check in on him. It’s a weird feeling, the whole thing, and it’s weighing on him quite heavily all of a sudden, so much so that he barely flinches when the next game begins.

“C’mon, June Bug!” Niall screeches, reaching out from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor to shove at Harry’s knee. “Wake up, dude! You’re tanking it for team red!”

“Sorry,” Harry says, swallowing down what he can of the dread in his throat and trying to catch up to the pack. It’s a silly game, Mario Kart, with all of its banana peels and sharp-toothed plants, little Toad in his little red buggy, bespeckled head bobbing along to the beat of the impassioned soundtrack. He keeps driving into things, blowing himself up on bombs thrown in his direction, launching himself over the edge of the course at nearly every goddamn corner. He can’t get it together, can’t even get within view of the finish line by the time the race ends, the last computer crossing the finish line long before he’s figured out how to throw the red shell in his hand.

“What, have you never played Mario Kart before?” Zayn teases. “I’ve never seen someone play so badly.”

“Not in years,” Harry says, “and this controller is so fucking small, I can barely hold onto it.”

“Well, get used to it,” Niall says. “Next race is starting, and we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Start without me,” Harry says, putting the controller down on the couch cushion beside him and getting up off the couch. “I need to go get some air.”

He opts for the main entrance of the building instead of Zayn’s balcony, thumping down all of the stairs and out into the muggy night. He stays close to the building, hidden away in the shadows, listening to the sound of the crickets and the frogs, staring up at the sky until he can make out the sliver of the moon shining behind the wispy, meandering clouds.

It’s way too far to walk home from here, or to walk to Louis’s work to ask for a little reassurance. He shouldn’t even be wanting that, anyway; he was _just_ thinking about how lucky he is to be able to spend time with the guys upstairs, and he should really stop running, he thinks, from the things that have any chance of being beneficial to him.

He just can’t seem to get Trevor out of his head, is the thing, and he doesn’t quite know how he’s supposed to focus on winning Mario Kart when he can’t stop picturing Trevor’s face, so close to his own, one cold hand clamped over Harry’s mouth, eyes boring into his own every time Harry collects enough courage to look up at him. It’s not right, though, the image, because Trevor’s face is pale, bloated, skin floating off in waterlogged chunks, eyes glazing white right in front of Harry. His hair is caked with mud, and so is the hand he’s worming down Harry’s pajama pants, he smells like pond scum, like low tide, and Harry’s gagging again before he can force the image out of his mind, turning quickly to retch into the bushes lining the front of the building.

“Harry?” Liam’s voice floats from the doorway, but Harry can’t hold back the vomit in his throat long enough to convince Liam that he isn’t here. Liam hears him, obviously, but he doesn’t move, a silhouette in the light spilling out from the stairwell.

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, straightening up to wipe at his mouth.

“Are you okay?” Liam asks, finally stepping down off the front step. “Are you sick?”

“I— maybe,” Harry says. “I’m just— I’m not feeling great.”

“Damn,” Liam says. “Come back up, I’ll grab you a soda, or something. That always helps settle my stomach.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think that’ll help me right now,” Harry says, leaning back against the rough siding of the building.

Liam doesn’t say anything for a moment, but he steps into the shadows with Harry. Somehow, Harry can see him better once they’re both cloaked in darkness, Liam’s eyes glowing in the dim moonlight.

“I know better than to ask outright,” Liam says quietly. “And I know you don’t know me that well, but I— I knew him, too. Not well, apparently,” he scoffs, “but if you need someone to talk to, I— I can try my best,” he says.

Harry breathes in deep through his nose, trying to settle his stomach. He thinks about telling Liam everything, about what Trevor did to him, how he met Louis in the first place, why everything in his life just seems to be one big circle spinning. He can’t do it, though, can’t open his mouth, even as long as Liam just stands there, silent, ready to try his best if Harry asks him to.

“Did Louis ask you to do this?” he asks. “To watch out for me?”

“Not in so many words,” Liam says. “But I— I’m not blind. I could tell something was up with you tonight. I think you’re a good person, and I don’t like to watch good people suffer,” he says.

Harry swallows hard, looking down at his feet. “Trevor— he, um.”

“He wasn’t a good person,” Liam says.

“No,” Harry says, closing his eyes.

“Is there anything I can do?” Liam asks. “Water? A hug?”

Harry cracks a smile, shaking his head. “New brain?”

“Here, take mine,” Liam says, making an awful squishing sound with his mouth and then pretending to stuff something in Harry’s ear. “It’s pretty big, I think, but entirely empty, aside from musical soundtracks.”

“Perfect,” Harry says, finally looking up to meet Liam’s eye again. “Thanks.”

“What should I do with your old one?” Liam asks, holding his closed fist out like he’s got Harry’s brain trapped in his hand. 

“Take it to Texas,” Harry says, “strap it to a NASA rocket, and blast it the fuck off of this planet.”

“Now you’re asking a little too much,” Liam says. “How about we just bury it, here, in the dirt?” he says, digging a little hole near Harry’s foot with the toe of his shoe, throwing Harry’s imaginary brain inside, and smoothing the dirt back into place.

“That works,” Harry says.

“Cool,” Liam says. “Will you come back inside? Niall’s devastated that he’s lost his teammate.”

“He’s better off without me,” Harry says, and it’s supposed to come out joking, but it doesn’t, and Liam notices.

“Nah,” Liam says. “Sometimes, it’s just knowing you’re there, right? No matter if you can’t actually, y’know, score any points. It’s just good to know someone’s got your back,” he says.

Harry smiles, leaning his head back against the wall for just a second longer. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”

“C’mon,” Liam nods toward the door. “Losing team is buying pizza, so you better get that ass in gear.”

Harry feels like a walking corpse making his way back up the stairs to Zayn’s apartment, but the familiar faint stink of weed, cigarettes and burnt food reminds him that he’s not, he’s here, he’s alive, and he’s got no good reason to not be happy about that at the moment.

“June Bug!” Niall cheers. “You’ve returned from war!”

Harry smiles, but he hesitates before he goes back to the couch. “Hey, um,” he says, not quite meeting anyone’s eye when he gains the attention of the entire room. “Is it— would it be okay if I ask you guys to call me Harry, instead?”

“Y’know, I thought it was weird we were all using your pet name,” Zayn admits. “Harry it is.”

“Not weird,” Harry assures him. “And it’s not really a pet name, it’s just—”

“All good, bro,” Zayn grins, winking in Harry’s direction. “Don’t gotta explain.”

“Harry,” Niall says pointedly, “my dude, you’re killing me. I already know we’re buying the pizza, but can you _just_ come over here and finish the round so we can get it over with.”

Harry laughs, hurrying over to the couch and scooping up his controller. His mouth still tastes of vomit, a little, and he can feel the watchful eye that Liam’s got on him for the next two races, but he forces himself not to notice any of it, to focus on the game, the way Niall’s cheering him on like a madman for coming in tenth instead of last, the way Zayn even reaches out to high five him when he somehow rakes in an additional four points for the red team. It’s fine, he’s fine, and he’s going to keep telling himself that until he believes it, until it’s true.

-

“Oh, I like that one,” Louis says, sitting up a little from where he’s been lounging on Harry’s shoulder to look closer at his laptop screen. “Keep that one.”

“You’ve made me keep every single picture so far,” Harry says. “C’mon, they can’t all be good.”

“But they _are_ ,” Louis says. “You’ve found your calling, June Bug. Photography is your thing.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, how hearing that name out of Louis’s mouth can settle him so quickly, can make him feel so at ease. When they others were using it, the other night, Harry just felt strange, like they were speaking to someone else, like the name was foreign and not his. When Louis uses it, though, Harry feels like it’s _him_ , exactly who he wants to be, Louis’s June Bug.

“Oh, okay, yeah, delete that one,” Louis says. 

“Are you kidding me?” Harry squawks. “This is the first one I actually like!”

“I look like a troll,” Louis says. “I look like some rare species of goblin a nature photographer just found in the woods. I look like—”

“You look beautiful,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to the side of Louis’s head and starring the picture to save it. It’s a nice photo, no matter what Louis says. It’s from the other morning, when they were out in the woods; Louis is tucked up on a low branch, cigarette in his hand, looking like some kind of grown up Peter Pan, like some kind of pixie creature. He’s so beautiful, even though he’s not looking right at the camera, trying to meet Harry’s eye, instead, a serious tilt to his mouth. Harry yelled at him just a second later, he remembers, for pushing about the Trevor thing, but somehow this is still his favorite picture in the batch, even with his own foot in the lower left corner of the frame, even with the lopsided halo of cigarette smoke around Louis’s head.

“Alright, Mr. Artist, I guess I’ve got to trust the process,” Louis says. “Though I’m not sure how much editing it’s going to take to make me look like I didn’t just climb up out of that tree and threaten you for a cigarette—”

“Shut up,” Harry giggles. “Okay, that’s all the pictures I have.”

“Word,” Louis says, turning over so his back is to Harry, both of them on top of the covers on Harry’s bed. “Nap time. Wake me up when you’re done editing,” he says.

“Sleep tight,” Harry hums, petting at Louis’s hair gently to help him drift off while he loads his pictures into photoshop with his free hand.

He took one photoshop class in college, and he thinks he remembers the basics of it, or at least how to work with the colors of the photos he took to make them look more aesthetically pleasing. It doesn’t take him long to get bored, though, and while Louis snoozes beside him, Harry decides to spend his time editing Louis out of the tree and putting him atop a toadstool in a different picture, instead.

He resists the urge to wake Louis up when he’s finished with it, giggling to himself and saving the image to his computer before he gets to work actually editing some of the other photos. He doesn’t really like this part as much as he likes the actual taking of the photos, but he can’t really have one without the other, especially because Louis’s already told him that Zayn wants to help him start a blog, or something, to post his pictures online and become a famous photographer, or whatever.

There’s a gentle knock on his bedroom door, but Harry notices Louis’s reaction to it before he registers the knock itself. Louis jerks a little, but he doesn’t wake up, and Harry buries his fingers in Louis’s hair again until he settles back into peaceful rest.

“Harry?” Gemma’s voice calls through the door. “Are you in there?”

“Come in,” Harry calls softly, removing his hand from Louis’s hair as the door cracks open.

“Hey,” Gemma says, slipping inside and closing the door after herself. “I’m heading out soon.”

Harry nods, focusing on his laptop screen just for a second, just to hide whatever vulnerability might betray him if he meets Gemma’s eyes. “Safe travels,” he mumbles.

“I was hoping we could talk,” Gemma says, eyeing Louis.

“Yeah,” Harry says, closing his laptop halfway. “He’s a heavy sleeper, so.”

“Okay,” Gemma says, shuffling over to sit on the edge of the bed, on the side Louis isn’t occupying. She looks at Louis for a moment longer and then glances around the room, smiling a little to herself. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in here,” she says. “I’m surprised you’re even letting me in now. You’re always so secretive about your room,” she teases.

“Not secretive,” Harry says. “Just— private.”

“Yeah,” Gemma says. “Some things never change.”

Harry cringes a little, but he hopes it doesn’t show on his face. “Gemma,” he sighs, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before—”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” Gemma says. “It’s okay. It’s behind us.”

“Okay,” Harry says, sinking down into his pillow a little.

“Do you think you’ll come visit? Like you said?” Gemma asks, a little more hopeful than she probably wants to sound.

“I’d like to,” Harry says.

“Good,” Gemma says. “I really want you to.”

“Okay,” Harry says, smiling tightly.

“I know we were never really that close, like, growing up,” Gemma says. “We were really different people in high school, weren’t we? I always wanted to know you better, but I never knew how to get close to you. You’d always just come home from school and lock yourself in this little cave, and I was too scared to knock and ask what you were up to. I wish I’d done that more,” she admits.

“To be fair, I probably wouldn’t have let you,” Harry shrugs. “If you’d knocked on my door when I was between the ages of sixteen and twenty I probably would’ve bitten your head off.”

“Yeah,” Gemma laughs. “I still should have tried, though.”

“Me too,” Harry says. “I should have tried. You’re not so bad, I guess,” he says.

“Neither are you,” Gemma grins. “It was nice to be able to talk to you, the past few days,” she says. “Sucks it had to happen like this, but.”

“Yeah, it was good to see you,” Harry says. “I forgot how nice it was to not be the only kid around for Mom to smother.”

Gemma grins, shaking her head. “Go easy on her, she loves you,” she says.

“She still just treats me like— I don’t know. Whatever,” Harry says.

“Like a kid?” Gemma says. “Get used to it. It’s a different fucking breed when you live in another _state_ and she still wants you to call her every night when you get home from work.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but Gemma doesn’t seem too bothered, shifting to glance down at his laptop.

“What are you working on?” she asks.

“I’m trying my hand at photography,” Harry says, opening the screen again to show her some of his pictures. “Editing’s boring, though, so I did this instead,” he says, clicking to the picture of Louis perched on the mushroom.

“Wow,” Gemma says, eyes flickering over to Louis again. “I’ve never seen you like someone before,” she says lowly.

“There’s never been anyone to see me like,” Harry shrugs. “He’s— I don’t know. Different. He makes me feel different.”

“Different can be good,” Gemma says.

“Really good,” Harry says quietly.

“You seem happier,” Gemma says.

“I think I am,” Harry says.

“Good,” Gemma smiles, leaning in to hug him sideways. “Love you, Harry.”

“Love you,” Harry murmurs into her shoulder.

“Let me know when you’re coming down to New York, okay?” she says, pulling away slowly to get up off the bed. “I’ll have the couch made up for you. Or two,” she says, glancing once more at Louis’s sleeping face and then winking at Harry.

Harry blushes, smiling at the keyboard of his laptop. Gemma lets herself out of the room as quietly as she came in, and then it’s just Harry and Louis’s little puffs of breath once again, the summer boiling on outside the windows.

Louis looks so cute, all curled up on his side, all tuckered out from work this morning and trying to rest up for work later tonight. Harry decides that editing can wait until later, closing his laptop and leaving it at the foot of his bed while he shifts to curl himself around Louis’s back. Louis stirs a little, but he doesn’t wake up, turning onto his back to allow Harry to tuck himself into his side.

Harry’s got too much on his mind to let himself drift off to sleep, but there’s something about the way Louis smells right here, right in the crook of his neck, that makes everything a little easier to handle. He hasn’t really seen anyone since the other night, after the wake; it was so exhausting, all of it, and he spent all day yesterday with Gemma after the funeral, telling each other more of the secrets they never thought they’d be allowed to tell. He wasn’t anticipating spending the day with Louis today, but Louis showed up at his front door after his cafe shift and Harry’s mother, absolutely delighted by the idea of having another person around to dote on, let him right up to Harry’s bedroom without a hint of warning. It’s not that Harry minds, really, he doesn’t, it’s just that he feels like he’s going crazy, like he needs just a little while alone to sort through all of the shit inside his head.

Louis starts to wake up on his own after a while, long after Harry’s lost track of the time. He arches his back a little and stretches out, dislodging Harry from his comfy resting spot, and then slides gracefully onto his side to meet Harry’s eyes.

“Stop thinking so damn loud,” Louis says, voice raspy from sleep. “You woke me up.”

Harry watches him for a minute, blinking when Louis smiles at him. “I think I have to go.”

Louis frowns, grabbing Harry’s hand as if Harry’s going to go right this instant. “What? Where?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Gemma wants me to visit her in New York,” he says.

“Oh,” Louis says, grip loosening a bit. “Well, that’s— that’ll be fun.”

“Would you come?”

“What?”

“Would you come to New York with me?” Harry asks. “We could just— get away, y’know? Explore the city, be tourists.”

“Well, yeah, but—” Louis stutters, still groggy and now very confused. “I have— work, and the girls, and Liam’s car is still in the shop, so I—”

“It doesn’t have to be now,” Harry says. “Gemma only just left. But just— you’d come with me? Someday?”

“Sure, if you want me to,” Louis says. “Are you okay?”

“Gemma said I should get out of here,” Harry says. “This town. Find somewhere else where I can— find myself, I guess.”

Louis watches him for a moment, eyes flickering between Harry’s. “Well that’s— not bad advice.”

Harry thinks about what else Gemma said that day, sitting on the side of the bridge. _Maybe he’s your escape. Maybe you don’t need a physical change of scenery, but a metaphorical one._

Harry’s been putting a lot of pressure on Louis, though, he thinks, putting a lot of heavy expectations on him, and that can only last so long. He’s been trusting Louis to keep being a metaphor, a lapse in reality, but he can’t do that forever, neither of them can, and the longer Harry sits here pretending that Louis alone is going to be the solution to all of his problems, the harder it’s going to be to accept that that just isn’t true.

“Just don’t—” Louis starts, hesitates, sighs. He looks down, flashing a momentary weakness, and Harry catches a glimpse of the human under all of the faith Harry’s built on top of him. “Don’t go away for too long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I might miss you.”

Harry smiles a little, so Louis smiles back, turning onto his back again and stretching his arms up over his head.

“I wanna go to the beach,” Harry says, rolling in the opposite direction, right off the bed. “Wanna come to the beach?”

“I like the beach,” Louis says, but he makes no move to get up off the bed. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Harry pauses, turning back slowly to look at Louis. “Which question?”

“Are you okay?” Louis repeats.

Harry blinks, dropping his eyes to the floor. “No,” he shrugs.

Louis sits up. “No?”

“No,” Harry confirms. “But— it’s okay to not be okay, sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Louis says. “But not if— not if okayness is, y’know, achievable.”

“Hm,” Harry hums.

“Is okayness achievable?” Louis asks.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Are you coming to the beach?”

Louis drives; they stop by his Nan’s house so he can grab his work clothes for later, and then they drive as close to the point of the bay as they can get, only a short walk from the lifeguard tower. Louis brought his book for something to do while Harry takes some pictures, but before Harry can set off to find something to photograph, Louis snatches the camera from him and snaps a picture of his face, startled and blank, against the bright blue sky.

“Can I talk to you about something?” Louis asks, looking down at the camera instead of Harry. 

“About what?” Harry asks, as Louis shuffles a little closer and takes a photo of their feet upon the rocky ground.

“Something that’s been bothering me,” Louis says, pointing the camera at Harry’s face again.

Harry covers the lens with his hand, before Louis can waste all the space on his memory card, and frowns. “Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Louis asks, voice small. He hands the camera back to Harry, but he still won’t really meet Harry’s eye, fidgeting with his book in his hands, instead.

“What?” Harry asks. “What do you—”

“You said you’d come to me if you ever got to that point again,” Louis says. “You said you’d come talk to me, instead of jumping, remember? The night Trevor died, before we knew— But then you didn’t come to me, you didn’t wait, and if I hadn’t been by the bridge—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I know it’s not about me, and I don’t really have a reason to feel hurt about it, but— I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Harry blanches, staring at Louis’s face for a long, terrible few seconds. “Louis, I—”

“Maybe it’s not right for me to ask,” Louis says. “Maybe I’m totally out of bounds. And it’s okay if you don’t have an answer, I guess, but I’m not going to take the question back, because I—”

“I didn’t think,” Harry says, before Louis can keep rambling. “I didn’t think at all. I wasn’t in my head, Louis, at all, I was just distraught, and I was looking for a way out, and that— that was the first thing I could think to do to get out.”

Louis looks down, trying very hard to not look disappointed with that answer, but not hard enough.

“I thought I would,” Harry says. “I thought I would come to you, Louis, but I— you can’t know, until you’re in the moment. You can’t know what you’ll do until you’re so distraught and so broken and so disgusted with life that all you want is to die, and then everything you ever thought before just goes out the window, and it’s just you and the side of that bridge and all that’s between you and the door is two, maybe three seconds of freefalling, you can’t possibly—”

“Harry,” Louis says quietly.

“—know how you’ll fucking react or if you’ll have the _foresight_ to go see if the cute guy who barely knows you wants to help you figure out how to not want to fucking _die_ so much—”

“June Bug,” Louis says, a little more forcefully.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to you,” Harry says, shoving his camera into his bag. “But I’m more sorry that I _still_ don’t even really want to be alive.”

Louis looks like he’s going to shatter, eyes full of tears when Harry looks up again. “I—” he stutters. 

“I don’t know why you like me,” Harry says, a little softer now. “And I probably never will, because it doesn’t make an _ounce_ of sense to me how someone like _you_ could be interested in someone like _me_ — but I can’t— It’s not fair to you,” he says, voice breaking a little at the end. “It’s not fair.”

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, doing nothing to disguise the way his voice is shaking.

“I put too much pressure on you when I told you I’d come to you,” Harry says. “I made you feel like you were responsible for me. I made you feel like you have the power to make me— to make me better. You don’t. You’re just a person, Louis, and that’s— _I_ need to get that through _my_ head. I’ve been expecting you to fix me ever since the night you plucked me off the bridge — the first time — and I’ve been tricking you into thinking that you could actually do it,” he says.

“I’m not—” Louis frowns. “I don’t—”

“You want to help, and I appreciate that,” Harry says. “But you’re not a miracle worker, or a therapist— you do help me, Lou, every day, just by being around, but neither of us should be getting into the habit of thinking that you can save me.”

Louis’s shoulders slump a little, and he looks out toward the ocean. “Sorry,” he says, barely audible.

“For what?” Harry asks.

“For— I don’t know,” Louis says. “I think maybe you’re right. I like to— to be able to fix things, I guess.”

Harry’s heart pangs, but he doesn’t tell Louis why, that he’s terrified that Louis will just get up and leave when he realizes that Harry’s an unsolvable project.

“I just,” Louis says, finally meeting Harry’s eye again. “I just hate that you’re hurting, and I can’t— I can’t take it away, or do anything to make it better— and I know I’ve only known you a little while and there’s still probably a lot of things we have to learn about each other but I can’t— I can’t stand the thought of— of losing you—”

“I’m right here,” Harry says.

“But you _wouldn’t_ be,” Louis spits, “if I hadn’t been loitering by the bridge, and I— how am I supposed to _sleep_ if I can’t lose you but I can’t spend every waking moment making sure you’re okay— and I know you don’t want me to worry, but how can I _not_ —”

 _Oh dear_ , Harry thinks. He’s really fucked this one up. Louis is shaking, eyes wet with tears, clenching his book so hard that he’s bent the binding and it’s all Harry’s fault, it’s all because Harry decided to live in his fantasy world for too long where Louis was the only one who could save him, and Louis took it to heart.

“Come here,” he says, opening one arm for Louis to curl into. Louis launches himself into his chest, instead, knotting both fists in the back of Harry’s t-shirt and holding on like Harry will fall if he lets go.

 _I broke him_ , Harry thinks, as Louis presses his face into his collarbone and sobs. _In under a month, I have completely and utterly destroyed him._

“Let’s go sit in the tower,” Harry says, pressing a kiss into Louis’s hair and brushing it out with his fingers. “Okay?”

Louis lets Harry lead him over to the tower, climbing the ladder as quickly as he can and waiting at the top for Harry to follow. Harry sits down against the back wall, right where they sat that very first night, and Louis curls up beside him, wrapping both arms around his waist.

Harry thinks back to that first night again, while Louis calms himself down in his arms; it isn’t hard, the remembering, because Harry’s thought about that night more times than there have been days between then and now, and he thinks the words Louis spoke to him in this tower must be engraved here in the wood, for as clear as Harry can see them in his mind.

 _I think that if you wanted to do it, you would’ve done it, but you didn’t_ , Louis had said, while the rain poured down around them outside of the tower. _You were waiting for something to happen, weren’t you? Waiting for something to come along and either push you over the edge or pull you back from it. You can’t just sit around waiting for life to happen to you. You’ve got to make things happen._

“Maybe it would be best if I just went away for a little while,” Harry says, before he can talk himself out of it.

Louis goes very, very still, barely even breathing. “What?”

“I don’t— I don’t like what I’ve done to you,” Harry says. It’s his turn for his voice to shake, to not be able to look Louis in the eyes. 

“You haven’t done anything to me,” Louis says, sitting up quickly. “What are you talking about?”

“You just said you can’t sleep because you’re afraid you’ll lose me if you take your eyes off me,” Harry says. “That’s not— it’s not healthy, Lou.”

“It’s— okay, that’s dramatic,” Louis says. “I sleep fine, promise.”

“You just— you have so many things in your life to worry about, I don’t want to have to be one of them,” Harry says. 

“That’s sweet, but that’s not your decision to make,” Louis says. “You mean a lot to me, Harry.”

“Why?” Harry asks.

“Why?” Louis echoes. “I don’t know why. You’re special. I can try to back off, if you need me to, if I’m freaking you out— but the world’s short on good hearts, Harry, especially on my side of town, and you’ve got one of the best hearts I’ve ever known,” he says.

Harry can’t even begin to believe that that’s true, but he can’t find it within himself to argue. “Still, I think— maybe it would be good for me to go to New York by myself for a little while, get away from here, try and— I don’t know. Try and figure some stuff out.”

Louis looks down, playing with the hem of Harry’s shirt. “So I’m uninvited to New York, then?” He’s trying to joke, but it comes out heart wrenchingly sincere, his voice wavering toward the end.

“You could come visit,” Harry says, watching the sky through the open wall of the tower. 

“I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me, and we haven’t been on a single date,” Louis says, slumping back against the wall.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” Harry says, glancing over at him quickly. “I—”

“I know,” Louis says, offering him a tiny smile. “I get it, I think. You have to do what feels right.”

“I have to make something happen,” Harry says. “Like you said. I have to make something happen for myself, or things are never going to change.”

Louis nods, but he turns his eyes to the floor. “I— I’m really attached to you,” he says, or mumbles, rather, like he wants Harry to know, but he doesn’t want to tell him. “I’m really fucking attached to you, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“And I you,” Harry says, reaching for Louis’s hand. 

“I hope you have fun in New York,” Louis says, pulling Harry’s hand into his lap to play with his fingers. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. And I hope you don’t meet a single cute guy the entire time you’re there.”

Harry laughs, slouching down to tuck himself into Louis’s side. “I’ll walk around with my eyes closed, okay?”

“Perfect,” Louis says. “And you’ll come back?”

“I’ll come back,” Harry says. “You can’t lose me that easy, promise.”

“Good,” Louis says, pressing a long kiss to the side of Harry’s head.

Harry doesn’t touch his camera for the rest of the afternoon, too busy memorizing every part of this moment, Louis, the sky, the warm breeze through the tower and the sound of the ocean below them. As much as he doesn’t want to lose this, any of this, he needs to know what else is out there; there’s a part of him, though, that hopes there isn’t anything for him in New York, that Gemma was right when she said that Louis could be his escape, but he’ll never know if he never tries, and there’s no way he can live without knowing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to Hope, who appears as briefly in this story as I knew her. 
> 
> i started this chapter back in september, when i first met Hope, but fics like these are hard to write when you and your protagonist are stuck at all of the same roadblocks. as always, thank you for reading, and i hope that if any of you are struggling, too, that we all will figure it out soon. 
> 
> **tw for animal death; it doesn’t happen on screen, so to say, but it is mentioned.

New York City at night is in no way markedly different from New York City in daylight, besides, maybe, for the source of the light shimmering over everything the way the sun ripples over the water in the bay back at home. It barely gets dark here, even in the middle of the night; or maybe that’s just Times Square, crawling with people even on the darker side of midnight, like the city exists in some everlasting noon. 

The heat lingers a bit more here than it does at home, like the asphalt is determined to radiate as much energy back toward the sky as it possibly can before the sun comes back up. It’s still warm enough, even now, that Harry’s comfortable in a t-shirt and shorts, perched on a low wall made of cool, sleek stone as Times Square hurries around him. He’s just people watching at this point, mostly, his camera switched off and hanging from his neck like an accessory. He hasn’t taken nearly as many cool pictures as he thought he would upon coming to New York, and he’s already been here for three weeks. He’s starting to see the holes in his plan to come to New York and let the city solve all of his problems, mostly because not a single one of his problems has been solved so far.

He still doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life, for one thing, nor has he found any sort of renewal on his drive to keep living. Mostly, he’s just learned what he probably already knew; New York has nothing for him, and it’s rather annoying that he had to come all the way out here just to figure that out.

Louis would love it here, Harry thinks. He would love all the lights, all the people and the chaos and the sound, cars beeping and voices laughing and music mingling block to block from all the street performers who seem to have no sense of time outside of the tunes they make. Harry has come out here almost every night for the past three weeks, simply picturing Louis amidst it all, pulling Harry in to dance right here in the middle of the sidewalk, swallowing Harry’s nervous laughter like they’re the only two people in the city. He would thrive off of all this energy, and it’s almost sort of a shame that Harry has to be here alone to experience it all without him.

Gemma’s been coming out almost every night with him, determined to make him fall in love with the city and get him away from home, but Harry’s alone tonight. It’s nice, in a way, to be alone in an atmosphere like this, where he could never truly be alone if he tried. He doesn’t think he could live like this forever, with all of these eyes and ears and not a single one perceiving him. He might have liked this a few months ago, when all he wanted was to disappear altogether, but recently he’s learned how nice it can be to feel seen by the right person, and he can’t stop wondering why he ever decided to walk away from that.

It’s late, much later than it seems, when the city finally seems to start packing it in for the night. The characters around him turn shadier like the dark side of the moon with every passing minute, and even the street performers seem to run out of songs to sing, tunes to make. He’s just about to shove his camera into his bag and be on his way back to Gemma’s apartment when something tickles at his leg, just above his ankle. It feels too big to be a bug, and a little too wet, so Harry glances down reflexively, the sharp edges of his thoughts dulling considerably at the sight of two big, brown eyes blinking up at him.

It’s a basset hound, Harry’s pretty sure, but it’s snow white, so white it’s nearly translucent, like a ghost. It’s real, though, it’s definitely real, wagging its tail lackadaisically when Harry reaches down to let it sniff his hand. The dog almost appears to be glowing in the moonlight, snuffling happily against his fingers and nudging Harry’s hand until he moves to scratch the dog’s lowered head.

He hears a breath, a human breath, hitch somewhere above him, and he glances up quickly, only just realizing that the dog is, in fact, accompanied by a person. It’s a girl, probably only Gemma’s age, and she’s got one hand over her mouth, like she’s surprised by something. 

“Oh,” Harry says, standing up quickly. 

“Hi,” the girl says, removing her hand slowly from over her mouth. “Sorry about her.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Harry says, glancing back down at the dog. “She’s very sweet.”

The girl makes a strange little noise in her throat, like her agreement got stuck somewhere between her heart and her mouth. “Yeah,” she says, voice wavering. “She’s the sweetest.”

She’s crying, Harry realizes with a sinking feeling in his chest. She’s not hysterical; in fact, she doesn’t even seem to notice that she’s crying, until Harry notices it himself. “Is everything okay?” Harry asks, awkwardly, as the girl hurriedly wipes at the tears that have fallen from her eyes.

“This is our last walk together,” the girl says hesitantly, nodding toward the dog. “I have to put her down in the morning.”

“Oh,” Harry says, heart falling. “Oh, no.”

“It’s like she knows it,” the girl admits, wiping at her face again. “She’s been so sad all day, and we’ve been out here walking for hours. She refuses to walk fast, but she also refuses to go home. You’re the only person she’s stopped to say hello to in weeks,” she sniffles.

Harry frowns, sympathetic tears welling in his own eyes when he glances back down at the dog. She’s still wagging her tail, blinking up at him, and Harry kneels down to give her another scratch, a better one this time, if it’s one of the last she’ll ever get.

“You must be really special,” the girl says, hiccuping quietly.

Harry smiles a little, narrowly holding himself together when he glances up at the girl. “What’s her name?” he asks quietly.

“Hope,” the girl says, smiling weakly.

Harry blinks, eyes falling back to the dog. “Hope.”

“Yeah,” the girl says. “My sweet Hope.”

Harry gives Hope one last scratch behind the ear and receives one small lick on the back of his hand in return, and then he stands up again and offers his saddest smile to the poor girl holding Hope’s leash in her trembling hands. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

“Thank you,” the girl squeaks out, turning away like she can’t bear to talk anymore. Hope doesn’t protest at being led away, but she goes slowly, glancing back at Harry once more before they round the corner and disappear back into the night.

When Harry becomes aware of himself again, he’s already marching in the opposite direction, blinking away the tears that won’t seem to leave his eyes. He’s missed the last train for the night, but the walk back to Gemma’s is a welcome opportunity to sort through the thoughts in his head, the whirlpool of emotions that have suddenly begun to overwhelm him.

Louis always tells him he takes metaphors too seriously, he spends too much time analyzing life instead of experiencing it, but there’s no way that this isn’t a sign. It’s an English teacher type of sign, a university dissertation type of sign; to think that Hope should visit him on her very last night on Earth, that she went out of her to way to visit Harry, and _only_ Harry… it’s got to mean something. Hope is dying tomorrow, and after that, there will be no more of her. Maybe she’s just a dog, Harry thinks, but her name is _Hope_ , and Harry’s got to get the hell of out of New York before he loses hope for good.

Gemma’s out for the night with some guy she’s been seeing, and Harry’s grateful for that when he first gets back to her apartment, but as the night drags on and sleep seems further away than the moon, all Harry wants to do is talk about this with someone who will tell him straight whether or not he’s losing his mind.

He doesn’t stop moving until the sun comes up, collecting all of his belongings scattered about Gemma’s apartment. By the time Gemma gets home, he’s already got his bag by the door, and he’s still pacing anxiously around her tiny living room. 

Gemma looks exhausted, still wearing the dress she left in last night. It makes Harry feel weird to think about what she’s been up to all night, so he doesn’t, lowering his eyes as she gestures to the bag by the door.

“Going somewhere?” she asks, half joking, half concerned.

“I’m going home,” Harry says quietly.

“Oh,” Gemma says. “Why?”

“I need to,” Harry says. “I’m just wasting time. I need to get it together.”

“Isn’t that what you came here to do?” Gemma asks. “To get it together? What’s going to be different at home?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “I thought— I thought it would be different here. But nothing’s happening.”

“Because you haven’t done anything,” Gemma says carefully. It sounds like something Louis would tell him; _you can’t just wait for life to happen to you, you have to make things happen._

“I can’t,” Harry says, more to himself than to Gemma. “I don’t know how.”

“Stay a little longer,” Gemma says, almost pleadingly. “You don't have to go home. You can stay with me as long you want, Harry, you know that, you can get a job and get your own place, and—”

“There’s nothing here for me,” Harry says. “I don’t— you belong here, I don’t. I have to get out before hope is gone,” he says. He sounds crazy, probably, but Gemma just frowns and shakes her head.

“I’ll help you,” Gemma says. “Michal said last night that his company might be hiring, and I told him about you.”

Harry looks down, working it out in his mind. He could do that. He could.

“But you don’t want to,” Gemma says, before he can come to the same conclusion himself. “Because you miss him.”

Harry rolls his eyes, turning away slightly. “I barely know him.”

“So?” Gemma asks.

“And he barely knows me,” Harry continues. “I can’t rearrange my whole life to be with him.”

“You’re young,” Gemma says, smiling patiently. “You have time to fuck up, but you only have so many chances. So, go home and be with him, if that’s what you want to do. You’ll figure it out.”

“You literally just implied that doing that would be fucking up,” Harry says.

Gemma rolls her eyes. “Stop taking everything so literally.”

Harry sits down hard on the couch, and Gemma shifts to stand in front of him, arms crossed over her sundress. “I met a dog named Hope,” he says, eyes fixed on the floor. Gemma will tell him whether he’s lost his mind, he knows, but he’s not sure he’s ready to hear it.

“Oh?” Gemma says hesitantly.

“She’s dying today,” Harry says.

“Oh,” Gemma says, a little more solemnly. “Okay, I see what’s going on here.”

“I came here looking for hope, Gemma,” Harry bites out, finally looking up to meet her eyes, “and last night I _literally_ found her, and she’s fucking _dying_. What kind of fucking sign is that?”

“Maybe you found her just in time,” Gemma says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You came here looking for hope, and you found her just in the nick of time.”

“And I’ve already lost her,” Harry says, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “She might already be dead. It’s like I just can’t— I can’t hold onto anything. Every time something good comes into my life, it slips away the next day.”

“That’s because you don’t hold on tight enough,” Gemma says. “Damnit, Harry, if you want something, then _hold on_. The world isn’t out to get you, you’re out to get yourself.”

“I don’t know how!” Harry says. “I don’t know how to— every time I find something that makes me happy, it hurts me, or I hurt it. I just— I just want to disappear sometimes,” he admits.

“Listen to me,” Gemma says, perching on the edge of the coffee table in front of Harry, her knees almost touching his. “Go home. Kiss that boy, take the first job that’ll have you, maybe spend a little less time with mom and dad, and you will, I _promise_ , you will figure it out. You’ll find somewhere to belong. And if there’s no space for you, you’ll figure out how to make one for yourself. Stop worrying so much about what’s right or wrong or a waste of time. Stop worrying about losing everything that makes you happy, and enjoy them while you can.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Harry says weakly.

“I know it is,” Gemma urges, “because I’ve been through it. And you can, too, Harry, you can get through it.”

Harry doesn’t want to get through it. He just wants to—

“Book a ticket home,” Gemma says. “Call Louis to pick you up from the bus station. Things will fall into place, you’ve just got to be patient.”

Harry, against his better judgement, decides to believe her. She accompanies him to the bus station after breakfast, sees him onto the bus with a kiss to his head, and that’s that. Harry watches New York fade away from him the way a song fades out at the end, never stopping until it blinks out of view. He thinks of Hope the whole way home; he wishes her luck in her next life, and the same for himself, as the bus draws him closer and closer to home. He’ll start again, he’ll do it better this time, he’ll make it work, he’ll make it stick.

-

Louis’s waiting for him when the bus pulls into the station. It’s getting dark out, but Louis’s parked under the orange glow of a streetlight, sitting on the hood of his car with a cigarette between his lips. He’s trying to act cool, but Harry can see the way his shoulders tense when he catches sight of Harry coming down off the bus. He hasn’t spoken to Louis in three weeks, now, but Louis slides down off the hood of his car and flicks his cigarette to the ground with his signature sunshine smile on his face, tucking his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and watching Harry approach like nothing’s changed at all. 

“Hi, mister New York City,” Louis says, as soon as Harry’s within range. 

Harry doesn’t say anything; he keeps walking until he’s right in Louis’s airspace, hesitates, and then tucks himself into Louis’s chest. Louis holds him immediately, and the only thing that betrays his cool exterior is the passion with which he crushes Harry against him.

“I missed you,” Louis says, face turned into Harry’s ear.

“Missed you, too,” Harry says, holding Louis low around his waist.

“How was it?” Louis asks. “Did you have fun? Make any life changing memories?”

“I hated it, I think,” Harry admits.

“You think?” Louis says, amused. He pulls back just far enough to see Harry’s face, but Louis doesn’t let him go any further. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “It’s nice, but it’s not for me.”

“Oh,” Louis says. Harry doesn’t miss the hint of tension that Louis releases from his shoulders. “Well, that’s alright.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, “if you thought you were rid of me. Turns out I’m sticking around.”

Louis grins, planting a kiss to Harry’s mouth. “Thank _fuck_.”

Harry laughs against his lips, maybe the first genuine laugh he’s produced in a while. “What?”

“I was dreading moving to New York, but I would have done it,” Louis says. “This makes things easier, I think. Less of a commute to work, for one.”

“You would have moved to New York if I stayed there?” Harry asks.

“I mean,” Louis says, flushing. “I was joking, but I— maybe. If you wanted. If— well—”

Harry kisses him again just to shut him up, heart swelling in his chest. He’s been home less than a minute but, fuck, he already feels better. How stupid he was to think that leaving would help. How stupid he was to think he could live without this.

“Are you busy tonight?” Louis asks, when Harry finally runs out of breath and pulls away. 

“No,” Harry says. “What the hell would I be busy with?”

“Well, I— I was thinking,” Louis says. “After you called, I started planning, and—”

“Lou,” Harry says. “For fuck’s sake.”

“I want to go on a date,” Louis says, grinning. “A picnic?”

“A picnic?” Harry says, biting down on his own smile. “Sounds nice.”

“Good, because I’ve already packed the whole thing,” Louis says. “It’s in the trunk. Let’s go!”

Harry folds himself into Louis’s passenger seat, and just like that, everything feels okay. Louis holds his hand all the way to the beach, and Harry must have left all of his troubles in New York when he left, because his suitcase is in the backseat but all of the pressure that was suffocating him just this morning seems a thousand miles away.

Louis tasks Harry with setting up the blanket while he unpacks their meal, probably only to distract him from what the meal actually consists of. Louis displays a small selection of Lunchables boxes, a family sized bag of Doritos, two cans of Arizona peach tea, and a discount tagged box of chocolate covered pretzels, one day past their expiration. Louis looks sheepish as he finishes setting everything out, blushing pink under the harsh, fluorescent glow of the streetlights. 

“Sorry it’s a bit, uh, scarce,” he says, putting it lightly. “I don’t get paid until Friday.”

“It’s perfect,” Harry says, reaching for the pizza Lunchables and one of the cans of tea. “Gemma can’t really afford rent and groceries in the same week, so, this has pretty much become my diet lately.”

“That’s the twenty-something lifestyle,” Louis shrugs. “Or so I’ve heard. Zayn’s actually getting evicted from his apartment,” he says.

“Holy shit,” Harry frowns. “What happened?”

“Rent is going up,” Louis says solemnly. “He can’t afford to live by himself anymore, so he’s looking for a new apartment, but he’s probably going to need a roommate and he’s too anxious and shy to move in with a stranger,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. 

“That sucks,” Harry says, studying his pizza cracker for a moment. 

“Yeah, he’s in sort of a pickle,” Louis says. “Liam’s thinking about moving in with him, but it would be sort of stupid, y’know, considering he currently lives for free in his parents’ basement. I thought about getting a place with him too, of course, but as fun as it would be living with him, I just don’t think I could afford it right now,” he admits.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Hey, do you think, um—”

“Yes,” Louis says immediately. “He wanted me to ask you. I didn’t know how to do it.”

Harry blinks, looking up at him. “Ask me what?”

“If you’d be interested in being his roommate,” Louis says. “I mentioned that you want to get out of your parents’ house, and he thinks you’re cool, so,” he shrugs again.

“He thinks I’m cool?” Harry asks. 

“Alright, don’t look so happy about that, I’ll get jealous,” Louis mutters.

“I’d love to be his roommate,” Harry says. “But I don’t have a job, or a reason to move out.”

“Right,” Louis says, deflating a little. “That complicates matters.”

Harry looks out at the water, moving languidly like a beast in the darkness just outside of the farthest reaches of the streetlights. The tide is coming in, but not in any sort of hurry.

“Lou,” Harry says, eyes fixed on where the horizon should be, smudged somewhere out in the distance. “Do you believe in, like, signs?”

“Signs?” Louis says. “Like, from God, or something?”

“Not necessarily from God, but, yeah,” Harry says. 

“I don’t know,” Louis shrugs. “I don’t believe in God, or any sort of higher power or whatever, but I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

“But would you— would you listen, if you thought the universe was trying to tell you something?” Harry asks. “Would you take its word?”

Louis doesn’t answer for a moment, nibbling on the edge of a cracker loaded with plasticky ham and cheese. “If the universe took the time to reach out to me, _me_ , over all of the other things the universe has to watch over, because it wanted to give _me_ a hint— well, I think I’d be stupid not to listen,” he decides eventually.

Harry tilts his head back to look up at the sky. It’s clearer here than in New York, without all of the light and pollution from the city mucking up the landscape of the stars. Louis shifts beside him, knocks over his can of tea, and part of it soaks into the leg of Harry’s shorts, but he barely even feels it. Louis scrambles to pick it up, already hissing out his apologies, but the tepid, sticky drink is already the furthest thing from Harry’s mind.

 _Go home_ , says a voice in his mind, Gemma’s voice, while Louis takes a corner of the blanket beneath them and tries to dab Harry’s shorts dry. _Kiss that boy, take the first job that’ll have you, maybe spend a little less time with mom and dad, and you will, I promise, you will figure it out._

“Are you alright?” Louis asks, his peach-lit, glowing face swimming into Harry’s field of vision.

 _You’ll find somewhere to belong_ , Gemma’s voice says distantly. _And if there’s no space for you, you’ll figure out how to make one for yourself._

“Yeah,” Harry says belatedly.

“Was that some kind of sign?” Louis asks, half joking. “The universe saying _shut up, Louis_.”

_Stop worrying so much about what’s right or wrong or a waste of time._

“Harry?”

_Stop worrying about losing everything that makes you happy, and enjoy them while you can._

“Shut up, Louis,” Harry says, curling a hand around the back of Louis’s neck and pulling him close. Louis goes easily, doesn’t even really need the guidance, but Harry doesn’t move his hand away, sliding it up into Louis’s hair and kissing him as sweet and slow as the tea still dripping down his leg. 

Remarkably, everything falls into place.

-

The door in Harry’s bedroom has always been an eyesore, more emotionally than visually, and the thick wall of hoodies and jackets hanging from the back of it do very little to hide it from the demons in Harry’s mind. Louis doesn’t seem to have any qualms about leaning his weight against the door handle while he stretches up on his toes to take down a stack of musty sweatshirts from the hook, but Harry can still feel the point of the lock pressing into his lower back if he doesn’t actively try not to think about it, a sharp pain made worse by the added weight of the person pressing against him, pressing him back, holding him down. It’s suffocating, the memory, all of the memories, all the hours of all the years spent trying to hide from himself in this stupid little room.

It’s not just the door that makes him feel like he’s suffocating, though. It’s the paint on the walls that he hasn’t been allowed to change once in his life, it’s the overstuffed, disaster of a closet full of clothes he doesn’t even like, it’s the same old duvet cover he’s had since middle school, the stained, more-gray-than-beige carpet that’s beginning to wear away under the legs of the ugly old hand-me-down bed frame from his grandmother’s house. It’s the curtains that block out every bit of light that dares attempt entering the room, it’s the stack of vinyl records that his family somehow collectively decided he was obsessed with at some point during adolescence despite his lack of a record player, it’s the dusty, chipped guitar leant up against the corner of the room that he’s never touched in his life. It’s the garage sale desk, the repurposed dining chair from the kitchen with not one but _two_ broken spindles, the deader-than-dirt philodendron on his bedside table that his mother bought him in high school to compensate for the fact that he couldn’t get a pet. Nothing in this room screams _Harry_ , doesn’t even it, couldn’t shape the fucking word if it tried. 

“God, you have a lot of hoodies,” Louis says, shifting away from the door handle to reach for the next hook full of sweatshirts. “You can’t possibly wear all of these hoodies regularly, can you?”

“You are not being helpful right now,” Harry says, barely flinching when Louis unloads the whole lot of hoodies onto the floor.

“Says you,” Louis scoffs. “You’re just sitting there!”

“Because _you_ said you’d come over and help me get ready,” Harry says. “How is throwing all of my hoodies on the floor helping me get ready?” 

“I’m gonna stay here while you’re at your interview,” Louis says, “and I’m going to clean this room. It’s disgusting in here, Harry.”

“No point,” Harry says, dragging himself up and off the bed to shuffle over to the closet. “If all goes well, I’ll be out of here by the end of the month, right?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Louis says, upon seeing the state of the inside of Harry’s closet when he pulls the door open. “Oh my god, Harry. How do you find _anything_?”

“I don’t,” Harry says. “I wear your hoodie every day of my life, haven’t you noticed?”

“I thought that was because you had a crush on me,” Louis says, peering over Harry’s shoulder into the vortex behind the mirrored closet door, “not because you literally, physically could not remove another article of clothing from your closet if you tried.”

“That’s why I needed your help,” Harry says. He reaches into the closet and blindly pulls out a handful of clothing, an assorted variety of t-shirts, crewnecks and vests fluttering to the floor. 

Louis looks appropriately horrified, nudging at the small pile with his toe. “Is that a _Big Bang Theory_ t-shirt? Who _are_ you?”

“Louis,” Harry whines.

“Okay,” Louis says, pushing him aside a little. “Give me a minute to cope with this. Go fix your hair.”

Harry steps back, frowning. “My hair is done,” he says.

Louis looks up at him, pursing his lips for a moment. “I should have come over earlier,” he says gravely.

“I’m not going,” Harry decides, stomping back to his bed. “I’m not doing the interview, I’m never getting a job, I’m just going to die in this room because I—”

“Harry, I implore you to stop disaster thinking right now, we have absolutely no time,” Louis says. 

“Fine,” Harry grumbles. “I’ll go fix my hair, _again_.”

He can hear Louis muttering under his breath about the state of Harry’s closet all the way to the bathroom, but by the time Harry works some dry shampoo and a touch of gel into his curls and makes his way back to his bedroom, Louis has got a small selection of outfits laid out on the bed, and a mound about the size of a small child on the floor next to the desk.

“What’s that?” Harry asks, nodding to the pile.

“That’s the pile of things we’re going to have to have a serious conversation about later,” Louis says, “including not one, but _two_ of the _same_ pair of khaki shorts.” Harry rolls his eyes, and Louis visibly fights the urge to go on. “These are the most presentable clothes I could find,” Louis says, with a sweeping gesture toward the clothes on the bed. He’s picked out two different button down shirts and a polo, one pair of black chinos, and one pair of dark wash, well tailored jeans. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, offering Louis a small smile. “I don’t think I knew I even owned chinos.”

“Personally, I’d go with the chinos and the pink button down,” Louis says, “but it’s up to you. I also couldn’t find a belt in all that mess, but if you have a black one, go with that. I’m going to wait downstairs, let me know when you’re ready to go,” he says, leaving Harry with a gentle kiss to the cheek and then slipping out of the room.

Harry gets dressed in the exact outfit Louis recommended, digging his belt out from under the bed and watching himself in the mirror while he slides it on. The nerves hit him all at once as soon as he’s dressed, folding his sleeves up just below his elbows with trembling fingers.

He’s been on job interviews before, of course, but for campus jobs, where the pressure was low and the candidate pool small. This isn’t exactly a high stakes sort of interview, either, it’s only a daycare, but Harry wants it desperately. Louis’s sister works there in the summers, but they’re looking for more help during the school year, and when Louis suggested it to Harry last week, a few days after he came home, it sounded so perfect he could hardly believe it. He likes kids, he thinks, but maybe he’ll soon discover that he really loves kids, and maybe he could start teaching someday, and—

He stops before he can get ahead of himself, slipping on the same loafers he wore to Trevor’s wake and switching his brain off as he ambles downstairs. Louis’s in the kitchen with his mom, unsurprisingly, as Harry’s pretty sure she missed Louis more than she missed her own son while he was away.

“Look at you,” his mom says, grinning at him over the rim of a teacup. “Good, good work Louis.”

“I’m ready to go,” Harry says, barely sparing his mother a glance. 

“That’s my cue,” Louis says pleasantly, sliding down off the stool at the breakfast bar and making his way over to Harry. Harry turns to make a break for the front door, but Louis catches his hand before he can get too far from the kitchen, though not before they’re out of view of his mother. “You look hot,” Louis says, but his sparkling eyes are stuck on Harry’s face.

“Not sure _hot_ is what the daycare’s looking for,” Harry frowns.

“Very professional,” Louis corrects himself, straightening Harry’s collar a bit. “Who wouldn’t entrust their children to this man?”

“Shut up,” Harry says, finally cracking a smile. “Can we go, please?”

“Of course,” Louis says, rushing to open the front door for him. Harry all but runs to Louis’s car, but Louis pretends not to notice, sliding easily into the driver’s seat and graciously holding Harry’s sweaty hand over the center console. Louis’s already told him he doesn’t need to be quite so worried, Lottie said that the daycare is so desperate for help they’d hire anyone, but all Harry can think about is how much more humiliating it will be to be turned away from a job that anyone could have gotten. He doesn’t voice his fear, and Louis doesn’t try to make him, humming quietly the entire drive to the daycare and rubbing his thumb in tiny circles over the back of Harry’s hand, grounding him without even trying.

Louis waits in the car while Harry drags himself into the daycare on his shaky knees, all of his nerves settling like buzzing bees in the joints of each of his fingers. He sits in the lobby a while, memorizing the pattern of the worn carpet beneath his pigeon toed feet, but the interview itself doesn’t take very long at all. He leaves with instructions to come back tomorrow morning to start training, and it takes every bit of self control he possesses not to take off at a run for Louis’s car, heart already swelling with pride.

Louis’s moved to the back of the parking lot when Harry gets outside, and he’s leaning against the tail light, facing away from the building, smoking a cigarette. Harry makes it two rows of parking spots before he gives into the urge to start running, quickly alerting Louis to turn around.

“What happened?” Louis asks, standing up quickly. “Jesus, did you plant a bomb?”

“I got it!” Harry squeals, running straight into Louis’s arms. Louis drops the cigarette in his hand, but he doesn’t seem to care much, automatically wrapping his arms around Harry.

“You got it?” Louis asks, digging his smile into Harry’s neck.

“I start training tomorrow!” Harry says, pulling back just enough to plant a kiss on Louis’s lips. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Thank _me_?” Louis frowns. “Thank Lottie, if anything, she’s the one who asked if I knew anyone looking for a—”

“No, for, y’know, everything,” Harry says. “For helping me. For caring.”

Louis’s eyes soften immediately, a smile spreading slowly over his lips. “We should celebrate,” he says, but he makes no move to pull away, his arms still locked around Harry’s waist.

“You have work in a few hours,” Harry frowns.

“I was thinking we could go back to your house,” Louis says, a hint of suggestion in his voice, “and go through that pile of hideous straight boy clothes that you call a wardrobe, and as my congratulations present to you, I’ll drop the whole lot of it off at the Salvation Army on my way to work.”

Harry laughs, shoving Louis away gently and rounding the car to get back in. It turns out that Louis wasn’t kidding about cleaning out his closet, though, and by the time Louis leaves to go to work, they’ve reduced about half of the clutter inside Harry’s closet, and with it, a lot of the noise inside Harry’s head.

-

The apartment Zayn found online is a little further outside of town, but closer to the coast, only a few minutes walk to the bluffs that line the northern edge of the bay. The building is a relic from the pre-gentrification era of the area, before the bay became a quasi-hotspot for cheapskate tourists during the summers, but it's far enough from town that the rent stays pretty low.

The space itself is sort of a step up from Zayn’s current place; it’s got walls, for one thing, and roof access in addition to the small balcony off the living room. The bedrooms are rather small, but it’ll do, it’ll definitely do. They fill out an application the second they’ve finished touring the apartment, and then they meander out to the parking lot, where Louis promised to pick them up after his shift at the coffeeshop.

“What’s your gut say?” Zayn asks, plopping down on the front step of the building just inside the shade of the awning over the door. 

“What do you mean?” Harry asks. He eyes the shady spot on the step beside Zayn, but he opts to remain standing in the sun, instead, kicking one foot up on the step.

“Are we going to get this apartment?” Zayn asks, producing a cigarette from somewhere and tucking it between his lips.

“I hope so,” Harry says, squinting up at the balcony that would be theirs. The landlord said they’d hear back by the end of the week, but Harry isn’t sure if that’s a good sign or not. Zayn only has half a month before he’s got to be out of his current apartment, and if they don’t get this place, Harry isn’t sure what their next move is.

“Me too,” Zayn says in a puff of smoke. Harry watches the cloud dissipate into the air, and then meets Zayn’s curious eyes.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Harry says, “but I’m, like, _really_ glad you need a roommate.”

Zayn cracks a smile, shrugging one shoulder. “Don’t tell Liam I said this,” he says, “but I’m really glad _you_ wanted to be my roommate.”

“You don’t want to live with Liam?” Harry asks.

“I love Liam,” Zayn says. “And that’s why I don’t want to live with him even a little bit. Same with Niall, and even Louis, honestly, you know? I’ve known them too long, and I know them too well, it would be weird. It’s almost easier, I think, sharing a place with someone I mesh with, but who I barely know.”

“I get that,” Harry says, glancing down at the foot he’s got propped up beside Zayn on the step. He could be anyone, and Zayn would be the none the wiser; besides, of course, for the fact that Harry’s pretty sure Zayn’s got some sort of magical, otherworldly sixth sense for reading people, and Harry’s a Hooked on Phonics box set. “How’d you meet them?” he asks, as the cigarette dwindles in Zayn’s hand. “The others?”

“In high school, I used to sell weed to kids at my private school, and some of the richer Bayview kids,” Zayn says. “That includes Liam, and this asshole Louis used to date.” Harry’s heart falls a little at the mention of Louis’s former romantic travails, but Zayn only rolls his eyes. “That guy was bad news, for real, but he was always good for at least a hundred dollars or so every week, and I met Louis through him. Then Louis moved in with his grandparents, I convinced him to dump his stupid, cheating, loser boyfriend, and he convinced me to stop selling drugs and find a more sustainable source of income. Liam and Niall stuck around, for some reason, even after I stopped selling to them, and it’s just been the four of us ever since,” he says, taking one last drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the asphalt and crushing it with the toe of his shoe.

“Wow,” Harry says. “That’s, uh.”

“We’ve all grown a lot,” Zayn says, like he’s worried he’s put Harry off. “I mean, I still sell weed, but at a dispensary, and it’s all legal, so it’s fine.”

“I didn’t meet Louis at the bar,” Harry says, squinting at absolutely nothing to his left to avoid making eye contact with Zayn. Zayn doesn’t say anything, so Harry squints a little harder and says, “he actually stopped me from killing myself.”

The silence is heavier than the end of summer humidity, pressing down on Harry’s lungs like impending rain. The sun is bright, reflecting off the windows of the ground floor apartments, and Harry feels like an ant under a magnifying glass.

“Well,” Zayn says, eventually. “That’s— Jesus.”

“I just thought you should know,” Harry says, finally looking down, but still not quite right at Zayn. 

“He’s an incredible person,” Zayn says. “Um— God, sorry, you really railroaded me with that.”

“Sorry,” Harry chuckles, meeting his eyes nervously. “Should I have waited until after we moved in together to drop that bomb?”

“No, I—” Zayn says, laughing a little, too. It’s easy, somehow, to laugh about it, even though it probably really, really shouldn’t be. “It doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. Not that you— oh, god, just— that Louis would do something like that, I mean,” Zayn says. “Louis could sweet talk an asteroid out of Earth’s atmosphere, I think.”

“He’s good,” Harry says, finally giving into the urge to sit down beside Zayn on the stoop. Zayn shifts a little to make more space for him, but there’s not really much space to be made. “Sometimes I forget he’s, like, a real person,” Harry admits.

“Oh, he’s real,” Zayn says. “Wait until he spends thirty to forty hours a week hanging out inside your apartment, you’ll _wish_ he wasn’t a real person.”

Harry laughs, hanging his head to hide his grin.

“Come to think of it, he’ll probably be even more insufferable now that he gets to see the both of us in one stop,” Zayn says. “We should charge him a portion of the rent, I think.”

“I’ll pay his part,” Harry says. “I can’t wait to have him around more.”

“Gross,” Zayn groans. “God, ew, tell me more about your suicide attempt, anything but sap for my best friend. Oh, fuck, I’m going to get sexiled every single night, aren’t I?”

Harry buries his giggles in his knees, relief washing over him in gentle currents. It’s easy banter, comfortable conversation, and any residual doubts Harry had about moving in with Zayn are eased, at last. 

Louis’s car appears in the parking lot before Harry’s finished laughing at Zayn’s continued whining, and Zayn jumps up off the step, launching himself into the front seat of Louis’s car to begin telling him all about the apartment and how grossly infatuated Harry is with him. Harry drags himself sheepishly to the backseat and keeps his bashful eyes locked on Louis’s face in the rearview mirror, smiling like a lovesick fool each and every time Louis looks up to meet his gaze. 

Louis takes the both of them out to lunch to celebrate their submitting an application, which seems an odd thing to celebrate, but Harry doesn’t mind an opportunity to spend time with Louis. Zayn is good company as well, of course, but by the time Louis drops them both off to go to his shift at the bar, Harry’s so pleasantly overwhelmed by the prospect of getting to live like this, playing footsie under the table with Louis while Louis and Zayn bicker about whatever inane thing has entered the brain cell they seem to share, he can hardly wait to hear back from the landlord about their application. 

Gemma was right when she told him that things would fall into place eventually; for the first time in a long time, Harry’s excited about what’s to come, and the fear of the future is the furthest thing from his mind.

-

Louis stays over the night before Harry and Zayn move into their apartment. Louis is unexpectedly proficient when it comes to packing, and they’ve got the majority of Harry’s life crammed into the back of the minivan before dinnertime, which is much more than Harry was expecting to have done today. It’s weird, looking at his childhood bedroom, or what remains of it. The furniture is still here, and the faded curtains, the vast majority of posters and things tacked to the wall. Harry wants to take as little with him as possible when he leaves in the spirit of starting a new chapter, rediscovering what matters to him. He’s bringing his clothes with him, of course, and some of the more sentimental pieces of his possession, his college diploma, a few of his favorite books, the stuffed dog he slept with every night until he was sixteen. Everything else will remain, though, a shrine to the kid who used to live here, a museum exhibit of a life loath to be lived.

It didn’t take long for the landlord to get back to them after they submitted their application; Zayn got a phone call the next day, and just like that, everything was settled. Move in day has been glowing like a hint of sunrise over the ocean for the past few weeks, and Harry hardly shuts his eyes all night long, even with Louis curled up on the other side of the bed, his face half buried in Harry’s tattered old pillowcase. 

Harry has never not slept in this room. Besides a few one-off sleepovers with friends in his childhood and the few weeks he spent with Gemma in New York, Harry has spent just about every night of his life lying in this same crevice of this same mattress, staring at this same spot on this same ceiling, watching the light that bleeds in through the curtains as it shifts and writhes throughout the night. He chose the state school closest to home when he started college so that he could easily commute without having to live on campus, but that was for a few reasons; for one thing, he couldn’t stand the thought of sharing a room with someone, or living in a dorm at all, and there was also always the thought in the back of his mind that he should save his parents as much money as possible in case he, you know, didn’t quite make it through. 

Louis rolls into him at some point close to morning, startling himself awake. Harry tries to be as still as possible in hopes that Louis will just go back to sleep, but he doesn’t shut his eyes in time, because Louis reaches up to poke gently at his cheek with one cold finger and curls a little closer to his body.

“Sleep,” Louis says, tugging the covers up and over them both. 

“Can’t,” Harry whispers.

“Nervous?” Louis whispers back.

“No.”

“Excited?”

Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment too long, and Louis props himself up to look at him.

“Worried,” Harry says eventually. 

“‘Bout what?” Louis asks, like there’s nothing in the world to be worried about.

“Dunno,” Harry says. Maybe there isn’t anything in the world to be worried about.

“Yes you do,” Louis says. 

“I’m worried things won’t be any different,” Harry says.

Louis watches him for a moment, the pale light from outside just barely illuminating the shape of his face.

“What if it doesn’t get any better?” Harry says quietly, turning away from Louis’s unwavering gaze. “What if I’m still as miserable as ever? Like, what if—”

“Hey,” Louis says, the smallest hint of a smile on his face, like Harry’s being as ridiculous as he feels. “It’s way too soon to be thinking like that.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, unconvinced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Louis says. “Just—”

“Just try,” Harry says, before Louis has to bother. “Nothing will ever happen if I don’t make it happen. I know.”

Louis falls quiet again for just long enough that Harry thinks the conversation is over, but then Louis stoops down a little, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry’s shoulder. “It’s okay to be worried,” he says. “I understand it, I think. I wish you didn’t feel like that, but it’s— you’re, y’know, it’s okay.”

Harry reaches up to pull Louis down, keeping his arms tight around him so he won’t get back up and keep digging his bony elbows into Harry’s brain like this. “It’s okay,” he says, voice soft. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, nuzzling into Harry’s neck. “You’re okay. Go to sleep, please.”

There’s something about the way Louis’s body fits against his own, the gentle rise and fall of his back under the weight of Harry’s hand, that gives Harry that same rush of emotion he felt earlier this summer, splashing around in the ocean with Louis, two dots against an endless horizon. He could fall asleep like this, probably, just like this, and be perfectly content in never waking up again, so long as Louis will stay, too, breathing his sweet, serene breaths into the crook of his neck, one hand twitching slightly atop Harry’s stomach as he drifts off to somewhere Harry will never be able to follow him.

He tries, though. He tries his hardest to follow Louis down, pushing all of his worries and his fears out of the room, out into the driveway, where his mom’s minivan will cart them to his new home in the morning. It works, at least for a little while, and by the time the sun comes up over the trees and starts to seep into the bedroom through the edges of the blinds, Harry is gone, and a new life waits for him between the edges of now and sundown.

-

The apartment is already mostly furnished by the end of move-in day, but the furniture from Zayn’s old, cramped studio apartment doesn’t quite fill their new space in a way that anyone’s terribly happy with. Harry’s mother, for one, has barely stopped looking at the ceiling since they got here, trying to pretend she isn’t horrified by the state of the things Zayn so graciously provided, like the threadbare, smoke stained couch, or the beat up, nearly worn through mattress that Liam and Niall help cram into Zayn’s bedroom after lunch. 

Harry has a brand new mattress, courtesy of his parents, something of a housewarming gift. He’s got brand new sheets, too, freshly washed and folded before he left his parents’ house, but he doesn’t bother unpacking or making up a thing until everyone starts to leave late in the afternoon, after everything has been carried in from the cars and the moving van Zayn rented and the energy is running low all around.

It takes a while to get Harry’s mother out the door; happy as she must be to see her son finally making an effort to do something with his life, she’s reluctant to let go, stifling her tears as she hugs him goodbye as if she’s never going to see him again. Harry isn’t as emotional as he expected to be, in either extreme. He’s excited to have his own place, sure, and it’s bittersweet to watch his parents’ car drive away from his new bedroom window, but more than anything, he just feels numb, sitting on the edge of his bare mattress and watching the hazy parking lot begin to grow orange with the setting of the sun.

Liam and Niall left a while ago, before they could be coerced to carry any more heavy things up the stairs, peeling out of the parking lot in Liam’s new leased Nissan. Louis’s still here, though, helping Zayn set up the television in the living room, and Harry should help, too, he really should, but he can’t seem to stop staring out the window, memorizing the jagged line of the trees that edge his new view.

There’s a pile of boxes near the bedroom door that will probably remain for weeks, and Harry should at least go find the lamp he brought for his bedside table before it gets dark out, but he can’t really be bothered. The room is so bare, so stark and empty and lifeless, a perfect clean slate, but almost overwhelmingly so. It’ll make for a good place for a new start, Harry thinks, all these blank walls with not a single expectation of him or judgement to make.

The door is open, but Louis knocks anyway when he comes looking for Harry. Harry looks up at him, and Louis gives him a bright, tired smile, shuffling his bare feet loudly over the carpet as he makes his way to plop down beside Harry.

“I see you’ve made a lot of progress in here,” Louis says, nodding to the precarious pile of boxes in the corner. 

“Looks good, don’t you think?” Harry muses.

“You really have an eye for interior design,” Louis says. “You look like you’re going to pass out. Let’s at least get your bed made, okay?”

Harry helps halfheartedly, but Louis doesn’t seem terribly excited about making the bed, either, so by the time they’re finished, Harry’s probably going to have to take the whole bed apart in the morning to remake it properly. He chooses not to worry about that quite yet, climbing back onto the bed as soon as the duvet is in place and leaning back against the wall.

Louis sits at the foot of the bed, facing him, watching him carefully moment. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Fine,” Harry says quickly, and then, “weird.”

“I’m proud of you,” Louis says softly, reaching out to poke Harry’s toe where his legs are stretched out in front of him. “This place is cool.”

“Will you stay tonight?” Harry asks.

“I would love to,” Louis smiles, “but I have work at five in the morning, and I know you probably wouldn’t care if I woke you up when I left, but Zayn would definitely slaughter me, so I should go home, probably,” he says.

Harry’s heart falls a little, and Louis must notice, because he smiles a little more warmly and crawls up the bed to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “You’ve gotta get used to your new home, y’know?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry says, pushing forward to shove himself into Louis’s arms. Louis holds him without a second thought, playing with the sweat damp curls at the back of his head.

“Hey,” he says, fingers stilling after a moment or two. “Have you heard from Hope?”

Harry blinks, shifting to look up at him. “What?”

“You know, your friend?” Louis says, as if Harry’s supposed to know what on earth he’s talking about.

“Louis, what?” Harry says tiredly, sitting up.

“You told me you met a dog named Hope who was going to die,” Louis prompts him. “You thought it was a sign?”

“Oh,” Harry says, looking down at his lap.

“Are you feeling a little more hopeful now?” Louis asks, looking as hopeful as he’d probably like Harry to feel when Harry looks up at him again.

“I guess,” Harry says, but it’s not the answer Louis was hoping for, if the way his face falls is any indication. “I mean, a new job and a new apartment doesn’t just make everything better automatically, you know? It’s like I said last night, like, there’s still— there are still some things I have to work on, I guess,” he says.

Louis nods, but the smile he gives Harry doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I think I’m in a good place, though,” Harry says. “I’m in a good place to start.”

“I think so, too,” Louis says, pressing one last kiss to Harry’s cheek. “I’m feeling very hopeful for you, if that means anything to you.”

“That means everything to me,” Harry says.

“Good,” Louis smiles, watching Harry closely, even as he climbs off the bed. “I should give you some time to bond with your new roommate, probably.”

“Or you could come take a nap with me,” Harry says, reaching out to invite Louis back to the bed with his outstretched hands, but Louis doesn’t fall for it.

“Tempting,” Louis says, “but I have to go. You could always come visit me at the cafe if you’re still missing me at five in the morning,” he teases.

“No thanks,” Harry mutters dejectedly, sliding off the bed to walk Louis to the door. Zayn is still fiddling with the TV in the living room, so Harry plops down beside him on the couch once Louis’s gone, watching him mash the buttons on the remote while the TV screen continuously flashes the same message. 

“What the fuck even is a media input,” Zayn mutters, dropping the remote into Harry’s lap. “I give up.”

“Don’t look at me,” Harry says, handing the remote right back over. “I don’t know a thing about technology.”

“Whatever,” Zayn says, switching the TV off, finally, and tossing the remote to the other end of the couch. “Wanna get a pizza or something?”

It gets dark pretty fast inside the apartment, but the living room glows like candlelight once they’ve located and set out all of the lamps they own. It’s not bad for a first night in a new place; Niall courteously stocked their fridge with beer and hard seltzers before he helped move a single thing into the apartment this morning, and it’s nice, nicer than Harry expected, to have dinner and a drink with Zayn and watch the orange sky turn gray, pointing out all of the empty corners and blank stretches of wall and all of the things they could be filled with.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, for the second night in a row, but that might have something to do with the fact that Harry leaves his blinds open all night long, letting the dull glow of the lights from the parking lot wash his walls the artificial peach of a backroad in summer. It’s sort of comforting, the way the light bleeds through even when Harry’s eyes are closed. If he lets his mind wander far enough, he almost feels like he’s gone back in time, back to June, standing on the median of the highway with Louis’s hand in his own, heart beating in his throat, gnats swarming like TV static around the glow of the streetlights overhead. 

He didn’t die that night, Harry didn’t, but maybe a piece of him did, a piece of him that really needed to go. Maybe he stood over the edge of that bridge with his eyes closed and let go of just enough of the old, rotted out parts of himself to let some good things in, to begin healing, learning, and living. Tomorrow he will wake up in a new day, a new life. He’ll try harder, the way he promised Louis he would, and Gemma, and Hope, and he’ll make it all work. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be a straight, uncomplicated path, but nothing ever happens if nothing is made to happen, and Harry’s finally ready to see what he might be capable of.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna keep adding to this whenever i feel like it, so if you like it, make sure you're subscribed to it!! i've got kind of a lot going on in my life rn and i don't have the time or the energy to write a big, well-put-together fic in one go, so i'm just going to keep this fic pretty open ended and just add to it whenever i can. thank you as always for reading!!
> 
> if you liked the fic, you can reblog it [here](https://suspendrs.tumblr.com/post/622288854997696512/june-bug-by-suspendrs-8k-havent-you-ever-had-a).
> 
> please do not translate, repost, or recreate this work in any way. thank you!


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